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BY  EDMUND  VANCE  COOKE 

Rimes  to  be  Read.    Verses  of  Character, 
Humor  and  Philosophy.  Cloth,  $1.50. 

Chronicles  of  the  Little  Tot.     Poems  of 
Childhood.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

Told    to    the    Little    Tot.       Stories    for 
Children.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

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Rimes    to    Be 
Read 


By 

Edmund    Vance    Cooke 
Author  of  "Chronicles  of  the  Little  Tot.' 


New  York 

Dodge  Publishing  Company 
40  East  igth  Street 


Copyright,    1897,    by 
J.  Edmund  V.  Cooke. 

Copyright,    1905,   by 
Dodge  Publishing  Company. 


(Rimes  to  be  Read) 

Revised  and  Enlarged  Edition,  September,  1905 


NOTE. 

THE  author  takes  pleasure  in  expressing  his 
obligations  to  the  "New  York  Sun,"  "Cleve 
land  Press,"  "Chicago  Record-Herald,"  "St. 
Nicholas,"  "Youth's  Companion,"  "Journal  of  Edu 
cation,"  "Saturday  Evening  Post,"  "What-to-Eat," 
"New  York  Herald,"  "Truth,"  "Metropolitan  Maga 
zine,"  "Puck,"  "New  York  Clipper,"  "The  Delinea 
tor,"  "Lippincott's,"  "Smart  Set,"  "Munsey's"  and 
the  papers  of  the  Newspaper  Enterprise  Associa 
tion,  which  various  publications  first  presented  most 
of  these  verses  in  print. 

In  the  present  volume,  an  even  half  of  the  titles 
appeared  in  the  former  editions  of  the  book,  four 
of  them  are  from  "A  Patch  of  Pansies,"  and  twenty- 
six  of  them  have  never  before  been  between  covers. 

E.  V.  C. 


=20: 


THESE 
"RIMES  TO  BE  READ," 

are  inscribed  to  their  readers, 
public   or  private. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Tales,  Grave  and  Gay 13 

Quaint  Characters  65 

Home-Made  Philosophy   113 

Various  Verses  137 


"I'M  GLAD  TO  SEE  YOU." 
•pOLKS  are  often  glad  to  meet  other  folks,  you 


know, 
But  they  sometimes  falter  when  it  comes  to  saying 

so; 

Or  they  say,  "I'm  glad  t'  see  y',"  O,  so  curt  and  low 
That  you  wonder  just  how  far  their  gladsome  feel 
ings  go. 

Say  "I'm  glad  to  see  you,"  when  you  mean  it.  Speak 

it  out; 
Don't  bite  off  a  piece  of  it  and  leave  the  rest  in 

doubt. 
Let  your  lips  know  what  your  soul  is  thinking  most 

about. 

It  doesn't  take  an  orator  to  say  the  sentence  right; 
It  doesn't  need  much  rhetoric  to  make  you  feel  its 

might; 
It  has  a  hundred  hundred  tongues  which  tell  its 

meaning  quite. 

You  feel  it  when  you're  going  home  and  catch  the 

window  light, 
You  see  it  in  a  sweetheart's  smile,  flashing  warm 

and  bright, 


(n) 


"Tis  in  a  mother's  morning  kiss  and  in  the  last  at 

night, 
And  baby's  little   reaching  arms  express  the   same 

delight. 

"Glad  to  see  you!"  O,  you  friends  of  dead  yesterday, 
Could  we  only  hear  it  from  your  dear  lips  far  away; 
Could  we  tell  it  into  ears  which  mingle  now  with 

clay, 
We  might  gain  that  fuller  meaning  which  the  simple 

words  convey. 

Say,  "I'm  glad  to  see  you,"  then,  to  those  who  still 

are  here. 

Say  it  with  that  meaning  which  is  music  to  the  ear. 
More  than  simply  say  it;  words  are  cheap,  but  deeds 

are  dear; 
And  men  will  say  it  back  to  you  and  make  their 

meaning  clear. 


(12) 


~ 

, 


—  > — — —    — -^ 

Tales,  Grave  and  Gay. 


THE  STORY  OF  OLD  GLORY. 

T  TELL  a  tale  which  is  not  new, 

•*•    But,  O,  as  long  as  truth  is  true, 

As  long  as  Freedom  sets  the  pace 

Of  progress  for  the  human  race, 

As  long  as  it  is  our  intent 

That  All  shall  be  the  Government, 

As  long  as  Rights  of  Man  shall  be 

The  heritage  of  you  and  me 

As  long  as  unslaved  thought  is  dear, 

So  long  will  all  men  pause  to  hear, 

The  story  of  Old  Glory. 

In  seventeen  seventy-six  its  red 

First  from  the  rising  sun  is  shed; 

In  seventeen  seventy-six  its  white 

First  blends  along  the   gladdened  light; 

Its  thirteen  starry  gems  of  heaven 

Flash  forth  in  loyal  seventy-seven. 

O,  not  of  warp  and  woof  and  dye 

Is  born  that  banner  of  the  sky! 

It  forms  from  out  the  heart  and  brain 

Of  Patrick  Henry,  Franklin,  Paine! 

It  floats  out  proud  and  high  and  free 

In  souls  of  Otis,  Adams,  Lee! 

Of  Quincy,  Sherman,  Jefferson! 

Of  Hancock,  Warren,  Washington! 

And  so  in  valor  is  begun 

The  story  of  Old  Glory. 


=00: 


Then  Gage,  Howe,  Clinton  and  Burgoyne 

And  Hessians  hired  by  British  coin; 

Cornwallis,  with  his  lordly  crest, 

Rhal,  Tarleton,  Parker  and  the  rest, 

Strive  hard  to  blot  that  flag  from  sight. 

But,  armored  in  their  sense  of  right, 

Come  Putnam,  Prescott,  Allen,  Stark, 

Men  of  a  strong  and  sturdy  mark; 

Come  Ward,  Montgomery,  Schuyler,  Greene, 

And  all  the  list  which  lies  between, 

From  Marion  to  LaFayette. 

Right  gallantly  the  foe  is  met! 

They  make  the  flag  acknowledged  free, 

For  kingcraft's  rule  is  not  to  be 

The  story  of  Old  Glory. 


In  times  of  war  or  times  of  peace, 
Its  marches  onward  never  cease. 
'Tis  borne  by  Clark  and  Lewis  on 
To  far-off  shores  of  Oregon. 
It  floats  on  Fulton's  boat,  which  steam 
First  forces  up  against  the  stream 
And  see!  how  on  the  air  it  rides 
In  triumph  o'er  Old  Ironsides. 
'Tis  borne  by  Perry  on  the  Lakes 
And  proud  defiance  bravely  shakes 
From  Tripoli  to  Mexico! 
Not  always  right,  too  well  we  know, 

(16) 


JOG 


RIMES     TO     BE     READ. 


But  all  the  more,  then,  must  we  care 
That  no  oppression  more  shall  share 

The  story  of  Old  Glory. 

Then  comes  the  time  its  own  stern  sons 
Turn  on  it  their  revolted  guns. 
But  though  Lee  musters  gallant  horde, 
With  Jackson's  swift  and  sudden  sword, 
With  Johnston's  cool  and  cunning  skill, 
With  Bragg  and  Longstreet's  strenuous  will; 
Though  Morgan  makes  audacious  dash, 
Though  Stuart  seems  the  lightning  flash, 
Though  Hood's  impetuous  men  are  hurled 
And  Pickett's  charge  astounds  the  world, 
Yet — Grant  and  Appomattox  come, 
And  stifled  is  the  warlike  drum. 
Even  in  the  hour  when  loyal  Grief 
Moans  by  the  body  of  The  Chief, 
The  monster,  Civil  Hate,  is  slain; 
State  clasps  the  hand  of  State  again, 
And,  from  the  rock-bound  coasts  of  Maine 
To  every  sunlit  Texan  plain, 
There  echoes  back  but  one  refrain; — 
The  story  of  Old  Glory. 

Still  floats  the  flag!    Its  stars  increase 
Through  the  triumphant  times  of  peace. 
Still  floats  the  flag — in  'seventy-six, 
When  all  the  nations  intermix 

d7) 


In  honor  of  our  liberty. 

Still  floats  the  flag  in  'ninety-three, 

When  mankind  comes  from  earth  and  sea 

To  that  Dream  City  of  the  West, 

Where  Art  and  Marvel  greet  the  guest. 

Still  floats  the  flag  in  'ninety-eight 

To  free  the  serfs  of  Spanish  hate, 

And,  gladdened  by  the  smiling  May, 

From  Cuba  floats  the  flag  away! 

More  honored  with  its  proud  folds  furled, 

And  faith  redeemed  before  the  world, 

Than  tho'  it  floated  wide  and  far 

In  hideous,  tho'  successful,  war. 

And  is  our  honor  less  of  worth 

In  other  islands  of  the  earth? 

Nay!  this  our  motto!     We  are  strong, 

And  strength's  best  use  is  righting  wrong. 

So  be  it  told  in  speech  and  song! — 

The  story  of  Old  Glory. 

I  Know  that  we  are  told  its  red 
Is  of  the  blood  its  heroes  shed, 
Its  white  the  smoke  of  battle  air, 
Its  blue  the  garb  its  soldiers  wear; 
But  O,  believe  not  that  its  stars 
Are  only  bursting  shells  of  wars! 
Believe  not  that  its  red  and  white 
But  symbolize  the  stripes  which  smite! 
Nay,  rather  think  those  stars  are  eyes, 
Eternal,  godlike,  of  the  skies; 
(18) 


RIMES     TO     BE     R 


Its  red  the  flame  of  loyalty, 
Its  white  the  badge  of  purity, 
Its  blue  the  blue  of  Freedom's  sky— 
And  then  we  know  shall  never  die 

The  story  of  Old  Glory. 


(19) 


RIMES      TO     BE 


THE  ANARCHIST. 

T7"ES,   Wallace   Wright  was   an   anarchist.     Nay, 

sir,  hold  back  your  blame; 
And  pause,  O  woman  of  high  degree,  before  you  cry 

his  shame; 
And  you,  fair  maid  with  the  spotless  soul,  shrink  not 

before  his  name. 

But  why  for  Anarchy?  Would  he  turn  the  world 
from  its  ways  of  work? 

Would  he  make  the  scholar  a  millman,  or  the  un 
taught  ditcher  clerk? 

Did  he  covet  the  honest  spoil  of  toil,  himself  con 
tent  to  shirk? 

Listen  and  know.    I  think  not  so,  and  yet  it  well 

might  be, 
With  a  boyhood  spent  at  a  working  bench  instead 

of  a  mother's  knee; 
With  ten  hours  toiling  daily,  for  a  pittance,  year  by 

year, 
For  children  are  many  and  cheap,  my  friends,  and 

dollars  scarce  and  dear. 

Yet  he  did  not  coarsen  in  mind  or  heart,  that  kin  or 

comrades  saw, 
But  he  worked,  he  thrived,  matured  and  wived,  and 

still  he  believed  in  law. 


(20) 


Her   softest  wish  was  a  law  to  him,  and  sweet  was 

the  hard-won  bread, 
And  the  steadiest  man  in  all  the  shops  was  Wallace 

Wright,  they  said. 

But  the  times  grew  hard  and  the  wage  was  cut,  and 

amid  the  ensuing  strife 
The  first  black  shadow  of  Anarchy  came  into  our 

workman's  life, 
For  his  bench-mate  there,  in  the  shop,  was  one  from 

the  far-off  Volga's  side, 
Who  had  seen  his  sister  dragged  to  shame  and  his 

father  scourged  till  he  died, 
Who  had  seen  his  mother  go  raving  mad,  had  seen 

it  all  dry-eyed, 
And  then  he  had  sworn  such  an  oath  of  oaths  that 

the  depths  of  hell  replied. 

And  Wallace  was  stirred  by  the  Russian  and  hon 
estly  shared  his  grief, 

But  would  not  hear  of  the   Red  Reform,  with  its 
promise  of  swift  relief — 

Relief  from  the  grinding  greed  of  man,  from  the 
wrongs  of  class  and  state, 

Relief  from  a  hundred  things  he  saw,  with  the  fer 
vor  of  honest  hate. 

Yes,  he  knew  his  own  and  his  fellows'  wrongs,  and 
his  very  soul  grew  sore, 

But  what  of  that?  It  was  all  forgot  when  he  entered 
his  cottage  door. 

(21) 


=00=: 


Then  the  times  waxed  worse  and  they  let  men  go, 

and  Wallace  among  the  rest. 
Discharged  for  his  long,  hard  service!  for  it  made 

his  wage  the  best, 
And  the  high  must  go  to  retain  the  low,  when  price 

is  the  crucial  test. 
No  work!   'tis  a  thought  to  rebuke  the  heart  for  its 

dance  within  the  breast. 
No,  not  for  you  who  read  this  word  and  think  of  a 

thousand  friends, 
Nor   you   with   a   dozen   talents,   all   pat    on   your 

fingers'  ends, 
But  for  him  who  knows  but  to  do  one  thing,  and 

who  earns  no  more  than  he  spends, 
Work,  constant  work,  is  the  needful  thing  on  which 

his  life  depends. 


Then  the  Russian  came. 


"Are  you  ready  now  to  mingle  with  Free 
dom's  set?" 
But  Wallace  had  only  gravely  smiled  and  had  shaken 

his  head:    "Not  yet." 

Then  day  by  day  he  sought  for  work.    Do  you  un 
derstand?     He  sought, 

As  no  man  ever  sought  gold  or  fame,  for  toil — and 
he  found  it  not. 


(22) 


The  quick,  curt  word,  the  rough  rebuff,  the  careless 

sign  of  the  head, 
Were  his  till  his  face  was  sharp  with  care  and  his 

heavy  heart  like  lead. 

And  every  night  when  he  sought  his  home,  with  an 
aching,  haunting  dread, 

His  wife  looked  up.  She  spoke  no  word,  but  mourn 
fully  drooped  her  head 

To  hide  the  fear  of  her  mother-heart,  the  fear  that 
would  not  be  gone; 

The  fear  for  the  babe  unborn,  whom  want  already 
laid  clutches  on. 

Then  there  came  a  day  when  they  had  to  face  the 

terrible  word,  "Vacate!" 
The   owner  was  "Sorry  of   course,  but  then,  that 

didn't  keep  the  estate." 

And  the  Russian  came. 

"Are  you  ready,  Wright?"     "Not  yet!"  he 

gasped,  "not  yet! 

I  have  still  my  wife  and  hope  and  life!  and  there 
must  be  work  to  get." 

A  wretched  hovel  received  them.     They  struggled 

from  bad  to  worse, 
Till  death  seemed  only  happiness  and  life  was  the 

greater  curse. 

(23) 


=20= 


RIMES      TO     BE     REA 


And  then  she  sickened;  her  life  ebbed,  ebbed,  and 

nevermore  turned  its  tide, 
And  Wallace  had  only  wildly  prayed  that  he  might 

be  laid  at  her  side, 
For  he  knew  she  had  died  from  cruel  want,  in  a 

fruitful,  generous  earth; 
And    the    quiet   babe    at    her    side,   he   knew,   was 

starved  before  its  birth. 

And  the  Russian  came. 

"Well,  Wallace  Wright,  are  you  still  content 
with  life? 

You  talked  to  me  of  Society's  claim,  and  Society 
killed  your  wife. 

Society  grinds  and  kills  us  all,  and  you  will  not 
make  it  rue  it. 

You  talked  to  me  of  your  God,  and  He — He  let  So 
ciety  do  it." 

Can  you  blame  the  man,  who,  in  wild  despair, 
pressed  lips  to  the  lips  of  his  dead 

And  arose  and  looked  at  the  Russian?  "Lead  on! 
I  will  go,"  he  said. 


A  month  had  passed  and  the  Red  Reform  to  which 

he  had  joined  his  fate 
Had  issued  its  edict  against  a  man  who  had  earned 

its  cruel  hate — 


(24) 


=^p 


RIMES     TO     BE     READ 


Who  had  earned  its  hate,  for  his  wealth  was  used  to 

oppress  and  not  to  raise; 
And  the  sterner  the  bargain  in  flesh  and  blood,  the 

more  was  his  own  self-praise. 

And  hence  the  decree  of  the  Red  Reform,  with  fifty 

men  in  the  plot, 
Where  forty  and  nine  had  voted  "Kill!"  and  one 

had  voted  not. 
That  one  you  know,  yet  his  name  was  first  to  be 

drawn  in  the  fateful  lot, 
And  his  Russian  friend  was  the  second,  so  the  Red 

Reform  decreed 
"That  the  monster  yield  his  life  to  man,  and  that 

these  two  do  the  deed." 
******** 

'Twas    the    fated    day — a    holiday — and    the    noisy 

throng  poured  out, 
Full-fed  with  the  chaff  of  cheers  and  jeers,  of  the 

sounding  laugh  and  shout, 
In  that  strange  way  that  a  world  is  gay,  all  heedless 

of  what  about. 

Then  down  the  street  came  the  day's  event,  the  glit 
tering  grand  parade, 

And  Wallace  knew  that  the  man  they  sought  was 
one  of  the  cavalcade. 

That  man  was  the  man  for  whom  his  brow  had 
sweat  with  the  wet  of  years, 

Who  had  drained  his  life  of  hope  and  joy  and  left 
there  want  and  tears, 
(25) 


Who  had  taken  work  from  his  hand  when  work  was 

another  name  for  life, 
Who  had  taken  his  home  from  his  head — from  hers 

— who  had  killed,  yes,  kitted  his  wife. 
Half  dazed,  half  crazed,  stood  Wallace  Wright,  with 

the  single  thought  in  his  head 
That  the  life  of  this  man  of  plenty  would  pay  for 

his  stricken  dead. 

Then  the  Russian  said:  "When  the  carriage  comes 

to  the  crossing  just  below, 
You  spring  and  seize  the  horses'  heads  and  I  will 

deal  the  blow; 
Then  shout:  'This  much  for  the  Red  Reform!'  but 

if  I  should  chance  to  miss, 
As  soon  as  I'm  clear  of  the  carriage  you  finish  the 

work  with  this." 

And  The  Deed  came  near  and  nearer,  when,  close 

at  his  side,  a  child 
Cried  out  her  baby  greeting,  and  the  doomed  man 

looked  and  smiled 
And  flung  from  his  glove  a  kiss,  as  of  love  unselfish 

and  undefiled. 

Lo!  the  purpose  of  Wallace  vanished,  like  the  dark 

before  the  sun, 
At   the   love   in   the   wee   child's   laughter   and   the 

thought  if  The  Deed  were  done 


(26) 


S     TO     BE     READ 

^ 


How  she  would  be  robbed  as  he  had  been  and  the 

sweet  face  marred  with  grief, 
How  a  hate  would  fill  the  little  soul  for  him,  who 

had  been  the  thief. 


Yet   there   was   his   friend,  the   Russian,   no  cause 

should  make  betray; 
And  there  was  the  man  who  had  wronged  him,  who 

blighted  the  summer  day. 
A  moment  of  wavering  anguish,  a  moment  of  doubt 

and  dread, 
Then,  disregarding  the  passing  steeds,  he  sprang  for 

his  friend  instead. 
But   the   terrible   knife   was   naked;   it   glittered,    it 

rose,  it  sank, 
But  it  did  not  find  its  target;  'twas  Wallace's  blood 

it  drank, 
While   the    crowd   closed  in   on   the   Russian,   who 

fought  them  front  and  flank. 
With    curses    and    cries    and    blows    they    closed; 

Wright  madly  strove  to  save  him; 
Was  seized,  was  bound,  and  on  him  they  found  the 

bomb  that  the  Russian  gave  him. 


The  rest  is  simply,  quickly  told.  They  scented  the 
deeper  plot 

And  offered  Wallace  a  pardon's  bribe,  but  he  an 
swered  them,  "For  what? 

(27) 


Do  you  think  I  would  bring  another  here  to  ease  or 

share  my  lot? 
Betray  a  friend  for  a  pardon?     For  a  thousand  I 

would  not, 
Though  you  keep  me  here  in  prison  walls  till  they 

or  I  shall  rot!" 
So  they  juried  and  judged  him  guilty  and  gave  him 

the  law's  extent, 
And  all  of  his  wrongs  re-woke  in  him  and  his  inmost 

soul  was  rent, 
Yet  he  smiled  to  the  Russian  a  sad  "Good-by,"  as 

into  his  cell  he  went. 


He   did   not   hear   the   confession   that  the   other's 

tongue  poured  out, 

As,  with  calm  and  clear  conciseness  which  the  list 
eners  could  not  doubt, 
He  told  the  story  of  Wallace:    how  the  workshop 

thrust  him  out; 

Of  all  the  bitter  battle;  of  how  it  had  come  about 
He  had  cast  his  lot  with  the  Red  Reform;  how, 

alone,  he  plead  for  life 
For  the  man  the  clan  had  sworn  should  die;  and  at 

last  he  had  stopped  the  knife 
With   his   own   rag-covered   bosom;   how   he   even 

then  proved  true 
To  him  who  had  pierced  his  body,  though  with  un- 

tntent,  God  knew! 


(28) 


-00 


"And  this  is  the  man,"  said  the  Russian,  "you  have 
dared  to  condemn — you,  you — 

By  the  Lord!  no  soul  in  all  the  whole  of  your  Mam 
mon-serving  crew 

Should  think  it  other  than  honor  to  latch  that  hero's 
shoe!" 

And  then  they  remembered  his  boyhood  days,  re 
membered  his  manhood  shown 

In  a  hundred  kindly,  simple  acts  amongst  people  he 
had  known, 

Remembered  the  Russian's  story,  yes,  even  a  trifle 
more; 

Why,  even  the  man  whose  life  he  saved,  said,  "He 
wasn't  bad,  at  the  core!" 

So  the  Governor  sent  a  pardon  and  they  opened  his 
grated  door 

And  found  him  as  dead  as  the  pitiless  stone  which 
formed  his  prison  floor. 

They  said  that  his  wound  had  bled  within.    I  doubt 

it  not.    Ah  me! 
There's   many   a  wound   which   bleeds   within    we 

haven't  the  trick  to  see. 
But  they  said  that  his  face  wore  a  smile  of  grace. 

Was  it  joy  to  escape  from  earth? 
Or  was  it  for  wife — and  that  little  one,  which  had 

starved  before  its  birth? 


(29) 


XXX, 


RIMES     TO     BE 


CONNOR  MCCARTHY. 

A    H,    gud    marnin',    sir,    'dade    and    I'm    hearty 
•"    and  glad  that  the  weather  is  fine. 
Sure  it  isn't  ould  Connor  McCarthy  that's  goin'  to 

mope  and  to  whine 
Because   he   can't  make   the  world  over.     Yes,  sir, 

that's  me  bit  of  a  place. 
Sure  I  love   every   leaf   on   the   clover   and   know 

every  buttercup's  face. 


"Dan  says  its  a  toomble-down  shanty,  and  not  fit  to 
live  in,  says  Lou; 

So  they're  payin'  me  board.  They  have  planty  and 
both  of  'em  free  wid  it,  too. 

And  I'm  takin'  me  sup  where  they  bid  me,  but  most 
of  the  time  I'll  be  found 

Right  here,  where  there's  nobody  wid  me — or  no 
body  still  on  the  ground. 


"Of  course  it's  an  ould  fellow's  notion,  and  yet  I'm 

half  thinkin'  it's  true 
That  the  girl  I  brought  over  the  ocean  is  a-doin'  her 

waitin*  here,  too. 
The  childer  see  no  cause  fer  sorrow  and  say  I'm 

a-weakenin'  fast, 
But  young  people   live   fer   to-morrow,  while   ould 

people  live  fer  the  past. 
(30) 


RIMES     TO     BE     READ. 


"The  girl  I  brought  over  was  Mary — my  Mary, 
God's  peace  to  her  soul! 

And  never  a  word  went  contrary  and  never  a  heart 
ache  but  stole 

Straight  back  to  the  land  it  was  born  in,  afraid  of 
the  peace  in  her  eyes, 

Eyes  soft  as  the  stars  of  the  mornin'  and  blue  wid 
the  blue  of  the  skies. 

"And  never  a  worriment  found  me,  but  Mary's  kiss 

laid  it  to  rest. 
And  whin  her  two  arms  went  around  me,  I  held  all 

the  world  to  me  breast! 
You  smile,  sir,  because  I'm  revealin'  what  most  of 

us  hide.      But  it's  true, 
And  surely  you  know  that  same  feelin',  or  else — 

well,  God's  mercy  on  you! 

"I  loved  her.     I  envied  her  shadow  because  it  could 

lay  at  her  feet, 
While  I,  wid  the  stock  in  the  m'adow  or  down  in 

the  corn  and  the  wheat, 
Was  workin'  fer  bread  fer  the  darlin'.    And  she  was 

as  jealously  warm 
And  vowed  she  was  often  fer  quarrelin'  wid  the  coat 

that  was  touchin'  me  arm. 

"And  so  we  lived  on  here  together,  as  happy  as 

childer  at  play, 
Till  Danny  was  born,  sir,  and  whether  I  blessed  or 

regretted  the  day 

(SO 


I  couldn't  have  told  at  your  biddin'.    I  loved  the  wee 

broth  of  a  boy 
As    he    lay    there,    all    swaddled    and    hidden — ten 

pounds,  sir,  of  genuine  joy! 

"And  yet  even  joy  goes  contrary  and  has  a  best  side 

and  a  worst, 
Fer  soon  I  was  second  to  Mary  and  Danny  the  baby 

was  first. 
What!  jealous,  you  say,  of  a  baby?     That  baby  me 

own  blood  and  bone? 
You  call  me  a  fool,  sir,  but  maybe  your  love  never 

burned  like  me  own. 

"I  was  jealous;  I  know  it;  I  knew  it.    But  never  a 

word  did  I  say, 
But  loved  wife  and  baby  all  through  it,  and  worked 

fer  them  day  after  day. 
But  O,  things  had  changed.     Why,  the  garden  had 

lost  half  its  green  to  me  sight. 
I   felt   'most  like   askin'   God's   pardon  fer   bringin' 

such  stuff  to  the  light. 

"The  long-legged  calf  and  the  cow  there;  the  new, 

nakid  lamb  in  the  field, 
The  shaggy,  ould  horse  in  the  plow  there;  the  corn 

wid  its  promisin'  yield 
Were  yesterday  pictures  of  beauty.   The  commonest 

rail  in  the  fence 
Seemed  proud  to  be  doin'  its  duty,  but  now  'twas 

all  dollars  and  cents. 
(32) 


Ah,  sad  is  the  day  that  must  borrow  its  light  from  a 
day  of  the  past, 

And  sad  when  you  turn  from  to-morrow  to  a  yester 
day  never  to  last. 

"Then  came  baby  Lucy,  a-makin'  a  change  I  don't 

yet  understand, 
But  all  the  delight  Dan  had  taken  came  back  in  her 

wee,  baby  hand. 
Ah,  she  was  my  bit  of  a  fairy!     Me  soul  warmed 

again  in  me  breast. 
I  was  fonder  of  her  than  of  Mary,  and  she  learned 

to  love  me  the  best, 
And  would  turn  from  her  mother's  own  shoulder 

and  cry  to  be  taken  by  me, 
And  somehow  that  made  Mary  colder,  but  I  never 

noticed,  you  see, 

"For  I  was  that  taken  wid  Lucy.     The  color  came 

back  to  th'e  sky; 
The  sun  seemed  to  shine  wid  a  use  he  had  almost 

forgotten  to  try, 
The  use,  sir,  of  warmin'  a  fellow,  the  inside  as  well 

as  the  out, 
Of   spendin'   his    glorious   yellow   to   buy   us   from 

worry  and  doubt 
And  all  of  that  foolish  complainin'  the  happiest  folks 

seem  possessed 
Forever  to  be  entertainin',  like  Mary  and  me,  wid 

the  rest. 

(33) 


S      TO      BE      READ 


"You  might  not  have  thought,  had  you  seen  us,  each 

one  wid  a  child  to  the  heart, 
Those   babies   had   come   in   between   us    and   were 

pushing  us  farther  apart. 
Though  both  of  us  keenly  could  feel  it,  we  let  it  run 

on  to  the  worst; 
The  years  failed  to  stop  it  or  heal  it,  and  one  day 

the  awful  storm  burst. 

"When  married  folks  keep  on  a-livin',  each  holdin' 

some  things  from  the  light, 
They  both  must  do  lots  of  forgivin'  before  matters 

settle  down  right. 
And  Mary  was  little  on  meekness  and  I — I   could 

hardly  be  bent, 
And  both  counted  kindness  a  weakness;  and  so  she 

took  Danny — and  went. 
You've  heard  that  she  went  wid  another.    A  lie!  on 

me  soul,  'tis  a  lie! 
And  yet,  sir,  in  some  way  or  other,  you've  heard — 

but  of  that  by  and  by. 

"Bit  by  bit,  sir,  I  sold  every  acre,  exceptiri'  this  lot 

that  you  see, 
A-tryin'    to    find    her    and    make    her    take    money 

enough  to  be  free 
From  poverty's  pinch,  till  one  marnin'  (it  still  sets 

me  heart  beatin'  hard) 
Widout  the  least  bit  of  a  warnin'  I  saw  a  lad  run  up 

me  yard. 

(34) 


And  open  the  door.    It  was  Danny!    The  rascal  had 

grown  full  a  head! 
Ah,  but  I  was  as  soft  as  a  granny  and  hugged  him 

and  kissed  him  and  said, 
'Your  mother,  Dan?     Quick,  don't  torment  me  wid 

waitin','  and  then 
He  gave  me  the  letter  she  sent  me.     I  mind  every 

scratch  of  the  pen. 

"  'Dear  Connor:  I  send  you  me  jewel.    I've  kept  him 

as  long  as  I  could, 
But  now,  though  it's  horribly  cruel  and  hurts  me, 

it's  all  for  his  good. 
I'm  not  fit  to  raise  him,  so,  Connor,  you  make  him 

the  man  he  should  be. 
Forgive  his  poor  mother's  dishonor  and  kiss  little 

Lucy  for  me.' 

"That  was  all.    But  O,  Father  in  Heaven!  the  words 

seemed  to  burn  in  me  brain 
And  everything  else  there  was  driven  away  by  their 

terrible  pain. 
'Dishonor!'  No  more  a  pure  woman,  nevermore  wid 

a  right  to  the  name. 
The  highest  of  everything  human?     I  cried  like  a 

child  wid  the  shame. 
And  then  I  determined  to  reach  her,  to  find  her  and 

help  her  to  live, 
To  give  her  a  chance  and  to  teach  her  that  God,  yes, 

and  I — could  forgive. 
(35) 


RIMES     TO     BE     READ. 


"Then  came  every  friend  and  relation,  wid,  'Connor, 

it  never  will  do.' 
'The   childer,'  they  said,   'Reputation,'  and  'Just  at 

their  time  of  life,  too.' 
And  so,  for  the  son  and  the  daughter,  I  gave  up  the 

mother  and  wife, 
But  O,  it  was  hard,  hard  to  blot  her  quite  out  of  me 

heart  and  me  life. 

"The  childer  grew  up.     Lucy  married,  position  and 

money  and  all. 
Dan  made  his  way  easy  and  carried  the  town  for 

recorder  last  fall. 
'Last  fall.'     Yes,    last    fall    in    September,    I    heard 

from  me  Mary.    She  sent 
And   begged  me   to   come,   to   remember   the   dear, 

early  days  we  had  spent 
As  husband  and  wife  and  to  hasten,  to  come  widout 

losin'  a  day. 
My!  my!  how  me  ould  legs  went  racin'  to   Danny 

and  Lucy,  but  they, 
They  said,  'Send  her  money,  but,  father,  you  can't 

carry  out  all  yer  plan. 
Don't  let  her  come  back,  for  we'd  rather  let  bygones 

be  dead,  when  we  can.' 

"  'Send  money.'     God's  mercy!    what's  money  when 

souls  are  a-starvin'  to  death? 
Dan   said  if  the   campaign  were   done  he  wouldn't 

have  hindered  a  breath, 
(36) 


RIMES     TO     BE     READ 
(^^ 


But  now — .  Ah,  'but  now;'  the  same  reason  that  al 
ways  was  ready  to  tell — 

'But  now!'  Was  there  never  a  season  when  mercy 
was  free  from  its  spell? 

"I  went  to  me  Mary.  I  found  her  that  sick  that  me 
heart  nearly  broke. 

She  died,  but  my  arms  were  around  her.  My  name 
was  the  last  word  she  spoke. 

She  always  had  loved  me,  and  better  than  that,  she 
had  always  been  pure. 

The  terrible  words  of  her  letter  were  not  what  we 
fancied,  for  sure, 

Her  heart  was  that  true  to  her  Connor,  her  con 
science  so  tender,  you  see, 

Her  leavin'  her  home  seemed  dishonor  and  so  she 
had  called  it  to  me. 

"I  hope  you  don't  mind  my  relatin'  me  story.    It's 

nothin',  but  I, 
I  lived  it,  you  see.     Now  I'm  waitin',  yes,  waitin', 

contented,  to  die. 
I've  got  no  reproach  for  the  livin'.     I've  nothin'  but 

love  for  the  dead, 
I  hope  me  own  past  is  forgiven,  and  as  for  what's 

comin'  ahead, 
Who  can  tell?  Maybe  joy,  maybe  sorrow,  but  surely 

there's  some  place,  at  last, 
Where   old  people  live  for  to-morrow,  as  well  as 

look  into  the  past." 
(37) 


RIMES      TO     BE     R 


THE   YOUNG  MAN  WAITED. 

TN  the  room  below  the  young  man  sat, 

With  an  anxious  face  and  a  white  cravat, 
A  throbbing  heart  and  a  silken  hat, 
And  various  other  things  like  that, 

Which  he  had  accumulated. 
And  the  maid  of  his  heart  was  up  above, 
Surrounded  by  hat  and  gown  and  glove, 
And  a  thousand  things  which  women  love, 
But  no  man  knoweth  the  names  thereof — 
And  the  young  man  sat  and — waited. 

You  will  scarce  believe  the  things  I  tell, 
But  the  truth  thereof  I  know  full  well, 

Though  how  may  not  be  stated; 
But  I  swear  to  you  that  the  maiden  took 
A  sort  of  a  half-breed,  thin  stove-hook 
And  heated  it  well  in  the  gaslight  there 
And  thrust  it  into  her  head,  or  hair! 
Then  she  took  a  something  off  the  bed, 
And  hooked  it  onto  her  hair,  or  head, 
And  piled  it  high,  and  piled  it  higher, 
And  drove  it  home  with  staples  of  wire! 

And  the  young  man  anxiously — waited. 

Then  she  took  a  thing  she  called  "a  puff," 
And  some  very  peculiar,  whitish  stuff, 
And  using  about  a  half  a  peck, 
She  spread  it  over  her  face  and  neck, 
(38) 


RIMES     TO     BE     READ 


(Deceit  was  a  thing  she  hated!) 
And  she  looked  as  fair  as  a  lilied  bower, 
(Or  a  pound  of  lard,  or  a  sack  of  flour) 

And  the  young  man  wearily — waited. 

Then  she  took  a  garment  of  awful  shape, 
And  it  wasn't  a  waist,  nor  yet  a  cape; 
But  it  looked  like  a  piece  of  ancient  mail, 
Or  an  instrument  from  a  Russian  jail, 
And  then  with  a  fearful  groan  and  gasp, 
She  squeezed  herself  in  its  deathly  clasp — 

So  fair  and  yet  so  fated! 

And  then  with  a  move  like  I  don't  know  what 
She  tied  it  on  with  a  double  knot; 

And  the  young  man  woefully — waited. 

Then  she  put  on  a  dozen  different  things, 
A  mixture  of  buttons  and  hooks  and  strings, 
Till  she  strongly  resembled  a  notion  store; 
Then  taking  some  seventeen  pins,  or  more, 
She  thrust  them  between  her  ruby  lips, 
Then  stuck  them  around  from  waist  to  hips, 
And  never  once  hesitated. 
And  the  maiden  didn't  know  perhaps, 
That  the  man  below  had  had  seven  naps, 
And  that  now  he  sleepily — waited. 

And  then  she  tried  to  put  on  her  hat. 
Ah  me,  a  trying  ordeal  was  that! 
She  tipped  it  high  and  she  tried  it  low, 
But  every  way  that  the  thing  would  go 
(39) 


RIMES    TO    BE    READ 
1 


Only  made  her  more  agitated. 
It  wouldn't  go  straight  and  it  caught  her  hair, 
And  she  wished  she  could  hire  a  man  to  swear, 

But  alas!  the  only  man  lingering  there 

Was  the  man  who  wildly — waited. 

Then  a  little  dab  here  and  a  wee  pat  there, 
And  a  touch  or  two  to  her  hindmost  hair, 
Then  around  the  room  with  the  utmost  care 

She  thoughtfully  circulated. 

Then  she  seized  her  gloves  and  a  chamois  skin, 
Some  breath  perfume  and  a  long  stick  pin, 

A  bon-bon  box  and  a  cloak  and  some 

Eau  de  cologne  and  chewing  gum, 
Her  opera  glass  and  a  sealskin  muff, 
A  fan  and  a  heap  of  other  stuff; 
Then  she  hurried  down,  but  ere  she  spoke, 
Something  about  the  maiden  broke, 
So  she  scurried  back  to  the  winding  stair, 
And  the  young  man  looked  in  wild  despair, 

And  then  he — evaporated  I 


(40) 


=£0: 


TO     BE     READ. 


THE  LABORS  OF  HERCULES. 
(Worked   Over  in   Easy-Going  Verse.) 

T  N  Ancient  Greece,  long  time  ago,  a  man  was  born 

•"•        — or,  maybe, 

I  ought  to  say  a  god  was  born— or,  better  yet,  a 

baby. 
His  father's  name  was  Jupiter;   Alcmena  was  his 

mother, 
Who  vowed  he  was  "the  sweetest  pet,"  and  "never 

such  another!" 

But  Juno,  wife  of  Jupiter,  pretended  not  to  know  it; 
She    didn't   like   young    Hercules,   and   straightway 

sought  to  show  it. 
She  sent  two  horrid,  monstrous  snakes,  to  eat  him 

in  his  cradle, 
Which  reptiles  found  him  sitting  eating  sugar  with  a 

ladle. 
They  smiled  to  see  how  sweet  he'd  be,  but  lo!  the 

boy  gave  battle: 
He  killed  them  both  and  used  their  tails  to  make  a 

baby-rattle. 
Then  Juno  let  him  thrive  in  peace;  but,  after  he  was 

grown, 
He  found  that  she  had  kept  him  from  a  kingdom  and 

a  throne. 
Eurystheus  obtained  these  plums,  but  night  and  day 

was  haunted 

By   tales    of  mighty    Hercules — the   hero   and   un 
daunted! 

(41) 


So,  after  some  deep  thinking,  Eurystheus  planned  to 

send  him 
To  do  a  dozen  labors,  any  one  of  which  might  end 

him. 

LABOR  I. 

The  Nemean  lion,  accustomed  to  ravage 
The  country  around,  being  voted  too  savage, 
Our  hero  was  sent  to  remove  him  from  earth, 
With  no  arms,  save  the  two  that  he  had  at  his  birth. 
Brave  Hercules  blocks  up  one  hole  of  the  den 
And  enters  the  other.     A  silence,  and  then 
Comes  a  growl,  and  a  roar  and  a  rush,  and  a  shock — 
Like  waves  in  the  tempest  they  struggle  and  rock, 
Till  Hercules  wins  the  renowned  "strangle  lock," 
And  the  lion  goes  down  like  a  log  or  a  post, 
Repents  of  his  sins,  and  is  only  a  ghost. 

LABOR  II. 

There  lived  at  that  epoch,  according  to  story, 
A  terrible  monster,  whose  principal  glory 
Consisted  of  heads,  which  a  strict  inventory 
Declared  to  be  nine;  and  one  of  the  same 
Was  as  deathless  as  Jove,  so  authorities  claim. 
Nothing  daunted,  our  Hercules  went  forth  to  fight 

it; 

He  cut  off  one  head  and  two  others  were  sighted. 
And  thus  the  solution  appeared  to  his  view: 
"When  you  take  one  from  one,  the  result  will  be 

two." 

(42) 


Rather  taken  aback,  but  still  thoroughly  game, 

He  called  his  hired  help,  lolaus  by  name. 

Then  he  shaved  off  the  heads  as  a  man  would  a 

beard, 

And  the  necks  (by  his  servant)  were  carefully  seared, 
Till  the  deathless  head  soon  was  left  grinning  alone, 
And  that  one  he  buried  beneath  a  big  stone. 

LABOR  III. 

The  Arcadian  stag  was  a  curious  kind, 
Golden-horned,  orazen-hoofed,  and  could  outrun  th 

wind; 

Whoever  pursued  him  was  soon  left  behind. 
The  mandate  was  given  to  capture  him  living, 
So  our  hero  set  out  without  any  misgiving. 
All  over  the  kingdom  he  followed  the  brute, 
Till  a  year  was  consumed  in  the  useless  pursuit. 
"Confound  you!"  said  Hercules,  seizing  his  bow, 
"I've  got  something  here  which  I'll  wager  can  go 
As  fast  as  two  stags."     And  it  proved  to  be  so. 
The  arrow  succeeded  in  laying  him  low. 
The  wound  wasn't  fatal,  so  Hercules  caught  him, 
And  into  the   king's  haughty  presence  he  brought 

him. 

LABOR  IV. 

The  boar  of  Erymanthus  was  de  frop 
Which  is  French  for  saying  how 
Bores  are  looked  on,  even  now. 
(43) 


w-' 


Our  hero  ran  the  rascal  through  the  snow, 

Snared  him  neatly  in  a  net, 

Picked  him  up,  like  any  pet, 
And  took  him  to  the  capital  to  add  him  to  the  show. 

LABOR  V. 

Augeas,  King  of  Elis,  it  appears, 

Had  several  thousand  oxen  in  his  stable, 

But  hadn't  cleaned  the  place  for  thirty  years. 

The  hard  taskmaster  heard,  pricked  up  his  ears 

And  cried,  "Ho!  ho!  my  Hercules,  you're  able 

To  do  great  things.    I  give  you  just  one  day 

For  this  spring  cleaning."     Stranger  to  dismay, 

Our  hero  sought  the  stables  of  Augeas, 

Turned  into  them  the  river  named  Alpheus, 

And  re-enforced  it  with  the  swift  Peneus; 

These  brooms  soon  swept  the  dirt  away,  you  have 

my  word. 
Perhaps   they  swept  the   stables  with  it.     That   I 

haven't  heard. 

LABOR  VI. 

The  Stymphalian  birds  were  a  horrible  lot, 

And  everyone  thought 

That  they  ought 

To  be  shot; 

Yet  no  one  had  done  it,  till  Hercules  brought 
His  little  snake-rattle  to  set  them  to  flying 
And  then  popped  them  over,  as  easy  as  lying. 

(44) 


-=00. 


LABOR  VII. 

A  bull,  sent  by  Neptune  to  die  in  his  honor  (?) 
Not  having  been  killed  was  made  mad  by  the  donor. 
Eurystheus  must  have  been  running  a  "Zoo," 
And  having  the  stag  and  the  boar,  wanted,  too, 
The  mad  bull  of  Crete;  so  he  ordered  "Go  get  him!" 
Though  Hercules  never  so  much  as  had  met  him. 

But  our  hero  set  sail, 

Grabbed  the  bull  by  the  tail, 

And  took  him  to  Hellas;  but  not  for  the  Garden, 
For,  having  arrived,  he  then  (begging  his  pardon 
Because  he  had  given  his  tail  such  a  pull) 
Set  him  free — and  all  Greece  was  as  mad  as  the  bull. 

LABOR  VIII. 

Diomedes  , 

Used  to  feed  his 

Mares  on  human  flesh. 
Hercules  just  cut  him  up, 
Found  the  mares  inclined  to  sup, 

And  fed  him  to  them,  fresh. 
'Twas  a  most  successful  plan; 
Though  before  they  liked  a  man 

More  than  oats  or  anything, 
Strange  to  say,  this  master-diet 
Made  them  docile,  kind  and  quiet, 

To  be  taken  to  the  king. 


(45) 


TO      BE     READ 


LABOR  IX. 


The  Amazon  queen  had  a  beautiful  belt. 
'Twas  given  by  Mars,  and  the  queen  justly  felt 
Quite  proud  of  the  trifle,  but  Hercules  started 
To  see  if  the  belt  and  queen  couldn't  be  parted. 
At  first  it  appeared  he  had  only  to  ask 
To  receive  it,  but  this  was  too  easy  a  task 
To  please  Mrs.  Juno,  who  stirred  up  a  bolt 
In  the  ranks  of  the  Amazons.    When  the  revolt 
Was  reported  to  Hercules,  he  rather  thought 
The  queen  was  a  traitress  and  covertly  wrought 
To  undo  him;  so  seizing  the  girdle  he  sought, 
He  slew  her,  and  thus  was  it  bloodily  bought. 
Which  shows  that  a  man  may  be  brave  as  the  best, 
And  yet  ungallant,  when  it  comes  to  a  test. 


LABOR  X. 

Geryones  had  a  fine  herd  of  red  cattle, 
With  a  two-headed  dog  and  a  giant  to  battle 
With  any  who  trespassed  upon  his  domain. 
Dog,  owner  and  keeper  were  met  and  were  slain, 
Yet  Hercules  still  had  to  fight  heavy  odds, 
(A  number  of  men  and  a  parcel  of  gods) 
But  in  spite  of  them  all,  he  conducted  the  string 
Of  handsome,  red  beasts  to  his  brute  of  a  king. 

(46) 


=20= 


LABOR  XL 


When  Juno  was  married,  the  goddess  of  Earth 
Presented  some  apples  of  excellent  worth, 

Made  all  of  fine  gold 
From  the  smooth,  shiny  skin  to  the  pips  in  the  core 

(Alas!  I  am  told 

Such  beautiful  apples  don't  grow  any  more.) 
But  wealth  is  a  worry;  nobody  need  doubt  it, 
Unless,  like  myself,  he  is  always  without  it. 
And  Juno  was  worried  until  she  grew  pale; 
Her  nectar  was  flat,  her  ambrosia  was  stale. 
The  fear  of  a  burglar  had  entered  her  head, 
And  so  every  night  she  looked  under  the  bed. 
No  matter  what  Jupiter  argued  or  said, 
She'd  wake  him  at  midnight  to  vow  and  declare 
There  must  be  an  apple-thief  round  about  there. 
At  last,  growing  tired  of  the  worry  and  wear, 
She  placed  them  in  care 
Of  the  sisters  Hesperides,  living  just  where 

The  sun  sets  at  night. 

Our  hero  met  Atlas,  who  held  up  the  height 
Of  the  heavens  in  air, 

And  a  bargain  was  struck  that  the  hero  should  bear 
The  dome  for  a  while,  and  the  action  should  earn 
The  apples,  which  Atlas  brought  back  in  return. 
Though  I  can't  understand 
Why  a  chap  with  a  chance  to  steal  apples  at  hand, 


(47) 


Scot-free  of  all  blame, 

Should  so  lose  his  head 

As  to  give  up  his  claim 

And  let  somebody  else  do  it  for  him  instead. 

LABOR  XII. 

Pluto,  in  his  world  below, 

Had  a  great  three-headed  beast 
Called  a  dog.      Perhaps  'twas  so, 
But  I  doubt  his  breed,  at  least. 
House-dog?    Hardly.    Poison-drops 
Fell  from  out  his  gaping  chops, 
And  his  fangs  were  sharp  as  hate, 
And  he  guarded  Pluto's  gate. 

Hercules  was  told  to  fetch 
This  repulsive,  savage  wretch. 
Hercules  with  little  fuss 
Seized  the  snarling  Cerberus, 

Took  him  to  the  Earth  from  Hades, 
Scared  the  king  in  playful  sport, 
Showed  him  round  to  all  the  court, 

Made  him  bark  for  all  the  ladies. 
Then  the  hero  let  him  go, 

And  he  sank  to  realms  below, 

One  head  growling, 

One  head  yowling, 

One  head  howling, 
Out  dog-curses, 

(48) 


As  mythology  rehearses. 

And  the  fun 

Of  the  Labors — all  was  done. 
So  are  these  doggerel  verses. 


(49) 


- 


RIMES     TO     BE     READ. 


THE  HERO  OF  THE  HILL. 

T^VO  you  ever  stop  to  watch  a  horse  pull  a  big 

*-*         load  up  a  hill? 

There's  something  fine  about  the  way  he  sends  his 

rugged  will 
Down    through    those    quivering    shoulders,    till    it 

seems  as  if  he  clutched 
And  hurled  the  hill  behind  his  heels  until  the  top  is 

touched. 
It  gives  a  man  new  courage  when  he  comes  to  his 

steep  grade, 
To  think  of  that  example  which  the  plucky  beast  has 

made. 


But  if  the  load  prove  stronger;  if  the  horse,  with 
hoofs  outspread, 

With  reddened  nostrils,  foaming  flanks,  and  bowing, 
straining  head. 

Surrenders  to  the  inert  mass,  while  the  driver's  only 
helps 

Are  strident  oaths  and  the  savage  sound  of  the  hot, 
whip's  snaps  and  yelps, 

Why  then  the  chief  result  is,  that  it  makes  a  fellow 
feel 

He'd  like  to  take  that  driver's  head  to  block  the  slip 
ping  wheel! 


(50) 


But  I   remember  one  time  when  the  driver  had  a 

heart, 
And  worked  with  mind  and  muscle  to  release  the 

stubborn  cart 
From  the   clay-rut,  when  some  soldiers   who  were 

loafing  in  the  sun 
Let  fall  their  lazy  jaws  to  laugh  and  let  their  cheap 

wit  run. 
One  cried,  "Say,  take  that  bag  of  bones  and  feed  him 

to  the  crows!" 
And  "Oh,  he'd  scare  the  crows  away,"  the  mocking 

answer  rose. 
"It'll  take  a  small  torpedo,  if  you  ever  move  that 

beast." 
"Better  get  one  of  the  size  of  that  which  wrecked 

the  'Maine,'  at  least." 


So  ran  the  jeering  comments,  till  at  last  a  bugler 

said, 
"Say,  driver,  if  I  blow  the  charge,  d'ye  think  he'd 

drop  down  dead?" 
It  was  then  the  driver  answered,  "Well,  he  might; 

but  let  me  say 
That  this  old  horse  has  heard  the  charge  when  it 

meant  'Charge!'  to  obey. 
Not  on  the  dress-parade  grounds  along  with  chaps 

like  you. 
But  on  the  fields  of  Cuba  where  the  Spanish  bullets 

flew; 

(5') 


RIMES      TO      BE     READ 


And  though  he's  drifted  back  to  me  and  don't  look 
very  trim, 

I  tell  you  he's  a  vet,  who  has  the  right  stuff  yet  in 
him." 

"Oh,  nonsense!"  laughed  a  sergeant,  and  "Non 
sense!"  sneered  the  rest, 

And  the  bugler  raised  his  bugle,  crying,  "This'll  be 
the  test." 

Then   out   upon   the   air   there   fell   a   dozen   liquid 

tones, 
Like  prophecies  of  glory  mingling  with  the  ghosts 

of  groans, 
The  sound  the  soldier  hears — and  cheers — although 

its  mellow  breath 
May  send  him  where  the  cannon  belch  their  black 

and  bitter  death, 
The  sound  which  cries,  "Destroy,  destroy!  and  let 

the  list  be  large!" 
The  ringing  of  the  bugle  when  it  blows  the  battle 

charge. 

And  how  the  old  horse  heard  it!   Up  flung  his  heavy 

head, 
Wide  grew  his  nostrils,  straight  his  ears,  and  quick 

the  fever  spread 
Through   every   nerve   and   muscle,   as   he    forward 

plunged  and  pressed 
Straight  up  the   steep,  despite  his  load,  and  stood 

upon  the  crest! 

(52) 


And  were  the  soldiers  laughing  now?  Not  so.  The 
scoffing  jeers 

Gave  way  to  shame  a  moment,  and  then  burst  forth 
in  cheers. 

And  the  sergeant  cried,  "Attention,  boys!  fall  in! 
dress  ranks!  salute! 

Salute  the  gallant  veteran — our  comrade,  though  a 
brute. 

God  send  him  oats  and  apples  and  the  shelter  of  a 
stall, 

And  grant  we  be  as  sturdy  when  we  hear  the  battle- 
call!" 


(53) 


RIMES     TO     BE     READ 


IN  THE  OLD  SCHOOLHOUSE. 

TXTELL,  well!   and  can  it  be? 

*        Is  this  the  same  old  schoolhouse?    Is  this 

the  same  old  me? 
Why,  here's  the  very  place 
Where  Teacher  stood  the  dunce-stool,  with  me  on  it, 

in  disgrace. 

And  here's  the  old  blackboard 
Where  I  ciphered,  ciphered,  ciphered,  till  I  stopped, 

completely  floored, 
While  Teacher  looked  severe, 
And  forty  thumbs  and  fingers  taunted  "We  know!" 

in  my  ear. 

And  here's  the  hollow  chair 
Which  I  levelled  up  with  water,  and  when  Teacher 

sat  down  there 
His  gasp  of  wet  surprise 
Touched  giggling  springs  within,  which  bubbled  out 

of  lips  and  eyes. 
And  O,  those  awful  tones 
Which   meted   out   my   punishment,   "You   sit  with 

Julia  Jones!" 

The  mirth  forsook  my  face, 

And  every  blood-corpuscle  blushed  to  witness  my 

disgrace. 

"O,  tyrant,  take  thy  rule 
And  rap  these  knuckles  loudly,  till  I  howl  before  the 

school! 

(54) 


O,  set  thy  biting  birch 

Against  these  legs  till  not  an  inch  of  skin  escapes  its 

search! 

O,  tread  me  in  the  dust, 

And  keep  me  in  at  recess  till  vacation,  if  thou  must! 
Make  sore  my  very  bones, 
But  cry  thee  mercy,  Teacher,  sit  me  not  with  Julia 

Jones!" 

Why,  here's  the  very  seat 

Where  I  sat  next  to  Julia,  sweating  blood  from  head 

to  feet, 

While  Julia  broke  a  rule 
And  whispered,  "Feel  mean  if  you  want  to,  Phil,  but 

don't  look  like  a  fool!" 
And  then,  to  show  her  grit, 
She   slipped   her   arm   behind   me,   saying,   "I    don't 

mind  a  bit." 
I  sat,  with  lips  a-curl, 
And   marveled   why  a   righteous   God   should  ever 

make  a  girl. 

But — well,  it's  very  strange, 
For  in  a  year  or  two  my  views  had  undergone  a 

change, 

And  I'd  have  swapped  my  bones 
For  the  punishment  of  sitting  all  my  life  with  Julia 

Jones. 

And  now!  well,  can  it  be 

I'm  in  the  same  old  schoolhouse  with  the  same  old 
dreams  in  me? 

(55) 


The  place  is  mean  and  low, 

But  Athens'  classic  Parthenon  could  hardly  stir  me 
so. 

The  Teacher,  where  is  he? 

A  blessing  on  his  stern  old  face,  wherever  it  may  be. 

And  Julia,  is  she  there 

Still  under  the  dominion  of  his  tutelary  care, 

A  means  of  righteous  wrath 

To  punish  young  male  cherubim  who  tread  the  way 
ward  path? 

I  can't  believe  it.     No, 

For  I  left  her  with  the  babies  hardly  half  an  hour 
ago, 

And  my  reason  quite  disowns 

A  theory  which  gives  her  back  her  maiden  name  of 
Jones. 


(56) 


=0(3= 


FAME  AND  FATE 

TTTORK  for  the  world,  but  art  for  me! 
*"       I  shall  win  my  way  with  the  brush,"  said 

she. 

She  studied  art;  she  studied  it  hard; 
She  painted  canvases,  yard  on  yard 
(For  "Art  is  long,"  as  I'm  sure  you've  heard), 
Two  strokes,  or  three 
For  a  blasted  tree 

And  a  wiggle  or  two  for  a  flying  bird. 
But  "art"  is  sometimes  purest  gold, 
And  sometimes  merest  gilding — 
So  she  "wins  her  way  with  the  brush,"  I'm  told, 
By  scrubbing  a  New  York  building. 

"The  world  may  dig  in  the  dark,"  said  he, 
"But  the  beam  of  the  footlights  beckons  me." 
So  he  cried  in  grief  and  he  cried  in  joy, 
He  screamed  the  scream 
Of  Aram's  Dream, 

And  he  groaned  the  groan  of  The  Polish  Boy. 
He  likewise  remarked,  "On  the  murderer's  hands 
Is  the  blood  of  his  victim!  there  he  stands!" 
And,  "Listen,  proud  maid!   You  shall  be  my  wife 
Even  though  it  shall  cost  your  husband's  life." 
But  "Art  is  long" — very  long — so,  too, 
Are  the  miles  of  ties  on  the  C.  B.  Q... 
So  he's  "on  the  stage" — in  Idaho 
From  Seven  Devils  to  Silver  Bow. 
(57) 


RIMES      TO     BE     READ 


"Love  for  the  common,  but  mine  is  fame!" 

She  cried,  "and  the  world  shall  know  my  name." 

Corrupting  English,  she  called  it  "verse," 

While  "poetry"  graded  somewhat  worse. 

"Now  flees  my  love 

As  doth  the  dove 

Which  moults  to  feathery  clouds  above. 

Its  cryptic  cry  apace  doth  haste 

And  wounds  the  wind  which  sweeps  the  waste." 

Ah,  "Art  is  long"  (in  sad  endurance) 

And  Fame  coquettes  with  bald  Assurance. 

And  now,  wherever  the  English  tongue 

Is  put  into  print  her  praise  is  sung, 

For  she  was  cured  of  manifold  ills 

By  Buncombe  Bitters  and  Pigweed  Pills. 

"Gold  cozens  the  soul  of  men,  but  mine," 
He  said,  "is  filled  with  the  art  divine. 
Music  may  lead  me  whither  she  may; 
I  toil  at  the  ivories  day  by  day 
Till  the  world  shall  gather  when  I  shall  play." 
He  practiced  in  every  conceivable  key — 
Rumplety,  tumplety,  tunk  tank,  tee; 
Ripplety,  skipplety,  lol-la-lee! 
Till  his  brow  with  an  honest  dew  was  wet 
And  neighboring  flats  were  marked  "To  Let." 
Yes,  "Art  is  long,"  but  the  wise  retort 
That  the  artist  himself  is  sometimes  short, 
So  the  world  does  gather  to  watch  him  play 
As  he  fingers  the  ivories  day  by  day 
In  a  billiard  hall  in  Santa  Fe. 
(58) 


/   i 

r 


RIMES      TO      BE 


ALMOST  UP. 

"VXTHERE  were  you  struck?"  the  captain  cried 
•  *        To  him  who  charged  on  Lookout's  side, 
Who  charged  in  all  his  martial  pride, 
Up!  over  rocky  ridge  and  rut, 
Up!    where  the  paths  of  life  were  shut, 
Up !   where  the  death- winged  bullets  sped, 
Up!    over  dying  men  and  dead; 
Nothing  could  stay  his  onward  tread 
Until — that  hurtling  scrap  of  lead. 

"Where  were  you  struck?"  the  captain  cried, 

Between  the  waves  of  battle's  tide, 

Then,  half  in  anguish,  half  in  pride, 

Though  drinking  of  the  bitter  cup, 

The  soldier  answered,  "Almost  up!" 

"No,  no;  your  wound — where  hit,  I  mean?" 

But,  even  in  that  final  scene, 

True  to  his  last  heroic  will, 

"'Most  up!    'most  up!"  he  murmured  still. 

Not  where  his  shattered  body  bled, 
Not  where  his  veins  poured  out  their  red, 
But  where  his  last  hard  duty  led, 
Was  all  the  dying  soldier's  thought. 
And  may  we  learn  the  lesson  taught! — 
No  matter  where  our  lives  are  cast, 
In  sunny  peace  or  battle's  blast, 
May  it  be  said,  when  we  have  passed, 
"He  struggled  upwards  to  the  last!" 

(59) 


BUT  THEY  DIDN'T. 

£\      HARRY  came  along  the  lane 
^**          And  he  was  very  late, 
He  hurried  on  to  catch  a  train 

And  had  no  time  to  wait. 
He  must  hasten! — but  against  the  pane 

He  caught  a  glimpse  of  Kate, 
And  he  didn't,  he  didn't,  he  didn't. 

O,  Katie  had  her  doughnuts  cut, 
Her  sponge  was  light  as  air; 

Her  pies  were  in  the  oven  shut 
And  needed  all  her  care; 

She  must  give  them  every  moment,  but 
She  spied  young  Harry  there 
And  she  didn't,  she  didn't,  she  didn't. 

O,  Harry  stopped  and  spoke  a  word 

And  spoke  it  very  low, 
And  yet  I  think  that  Katie  heard 

And  still  believed  it  so, 
Tho*  all  the  while  the  youth  averred 

That  he  would  have  to  go, 

But  he  didn't,  he  didn't,  he  didn't. 

O,  Katie  said  the  fire  was  warm 

And  she  was  "like  to  drop;" 
And  Harry  seemed  to  think  his  arm 

Was  needed  as  a  prop; 
(60) 


IMES     TO     BE     READ 


And  Katie  was  in  such  alarm 
She  said  that  he  must  stop! 

But  he  didn't,  he  didn't,  he  didn't. 

For  he  said  he  held  unto  the  best 

When  he  had  proved  it  so, 
And  she  drooped  her  head  upon  his  breast 

And  said  that  he  must  go; 
And  he  said  he'd  leave  that  instant 

Lest  he  heard  a  cruel  "No!" 

"Rut 

4JUI  •  ,  • 


l/\ 

i 


EVOLUTION. 

JVT  OW  when  the  original  anthropoid 

A*      First  found  that  his  pimpling  skin  was  void 

Of  hair, 

And  bare, 

Some  ganglial  glimmer  within  the  brute 
Impelled  him  to  look  for  a  substitute. 

That  fact, 

That  act, 

Was  civilization's  primal  spurt, 
For  a  man  isn't  man  without — a  shirt. 

Then  followed  an  aeon,  more  or  less, 
With  never  a  change  in  the  creature's  dress. 

Mayhap 

Some  chap 

May  have  added  breeches,  or  even  a  coat, 
But  the  purpose  was  still  the  same,  you'll  note 

Until 

Some  thrill 

Of  pride  in  appearance  began  to  grow, 
And  he  added  an  outer  shirt — for  show. 

Some  anthropologists,  you  may  assert, 
Say  the  proud  preceded  the  useful  shirt. 

'Tis  true 

They  do. 

But  to  answer  that  I  need  only  say 
That  I  am  writing  this  verse,  not  they. 
(62) 


RIMES      TO     BE     READ 


And  if 

You  sniff 

At  that,  I  furthermore  plainly  state 
My  poetical  license  is  paid  to  date. 

Then  some  brave  serf,  in  a  fortunate  hour, 
Destroyed  his  oppressor  and  rose  to  power; 

And  then 

When  men 

Would  sneer  at  the  telltale  gall  and  fleck 
Which   showed   where   the   chain   had   thralled   his 
neck, 

His  need 

Decreed 

That  the  neck  of  his  shirt  be  fashioned  taller 
As  a  "badge  of  place."    And  thus — the  collar. 

Another  step  in  enlightened  pride, 
And  around  the  collar  a  cloth  was  tied. 

Complete 

And  neat 

It  looked,  till  one  with  a  golden  pin 
Jauntily  stuck  the  ornament  in. 

Pride  vied 

With   pride, 

And  luxury  now  with  luxury  met, 
And  a  sparkling  jewel  in  the  pin  was  set. 

But  the  point  of  the  tale  is  yet  to  come, 
For  take  the  jewel  in  your  finger  and  thumb 
(63) 


And  try 

The  ply 

Of  collar  and  neck-dress  through  and   through, 
And  the  prideful  shirt  and  the  useful,  too 

And  then 

Again ! 


And  the  polished  pin  which  you  have  employed 
Has  scratched  the  original  anthropoid! 


(64) 


Quaint   Characters. 


RIMES     TO     BE     R 


"FIN  DE  SIECLE." 

HT  HIS  life's  a  hollow  bubble, 
•*•          Don't  you  know? 
Just  a  painted  piece  of  twouble, 

Don't  you  know? 
We  come  to  earth  to  cwy, 
We  gwow  oldeh  and  we  sigh, 
Oldeh  still  and  then  we  die, 

Don't  you  know? 


It  is  all  a  howwid  mix, 

Don't  you  know? 
Business,  love,  and  politics, 

Don't  you  know? 

Clubs  and  pawties,  cliques  and  sets, 
Fashions,  follies,  sins,  wegwets, 
Stwuggle,  stwife,  and  cigawettes, 

Don't  you  know? 


And  we  wowwy  through  each  day, 

Don't  you  know? 
In  a  sort  of,  kind  of,  way, 

Don't  you  know? 
We  are  hungwy,  we  are  fed, 
Some  few  things  are  done  and  said, 
We  are  tihed,  we  go  to  bed, 

Don't  you  know? 
(67) 


RIMES     TO     BE     READ 


Business?    O,  that's  beastly  twade, 

Don't  you  know? 
Something's  lost  or  something's  made, 

Don't  you  know? 
And  you  wowwy,  and  you  mope 
And  you  hang  youah  highest  hope 
On  the  pwice,  pe'haps,  of  soap! 

Don't  you  know? 

Politics?    O,  just  a  lawk, 

Don't  you  know? 
Just  a  nightmaeh  in  the  dawk, 

Don't  you  know? 
You  pe'spiah  all  day  and  night 
And  afteh  all  the  fight, 
Why  pe'haps  the  w'ong  man's  wight, 

Don't  you  know? 

Society?   Is  dwess, 

Don't  you  know? 
And  a  sou'ce  of  much  distwess, 

Don't  you  know? 
To  detehmine  what  to  weah, 
When  to  go  and  likewise  wheah 
And  how  to  pawt  youah  haih, 

Don't  you  know? 

Love?    O,  yes!  You  meet  some  gil, 

Don't  you  know? 
And  you  get  in  such  a  whil, 

Don't  you  know? 
(68) 


RIMES     TO     BE     READ 


Then  you  kneel  down  on  the  floah 
And  imploah  and  adoah — 
And  it's  all  a  beastly  boah! 
Don't  you  know? 

So  theah's  weally  nothing  in  it, 

Don't  you  know? 
And  we  live  just  for  the  minute, 

Don't  you  know? 
For  when  you've  seen  and  felt, 
Dwank  and  eaten,  heahd  and  smelt, 
Why  all  the  cawds  are  dealt, 

Don't  you  know? 

You've  one  consciousness,  that's  all, 

Don't  you  know? 
And  one  stomach,  and  it's  small, 

Don't  you  know? 
You  can  only  weah  one  tie, 
One  eye-glass  in  youah  eye, 
And  one  coffin  when  you  die, 

Don't  you  know? 


(69) 


DE  GOOFEH-JACK. 

DE  cunjuh-doctah,  he  mek  de  cunjuh-bag, 
He  mek  de  cunjuh-bag,  he  mek  de  cunjuh-bag; 
He  done  mek  it  out-er  a  shirt-tail  rag 
Dat  come  f'om  a  blue-gum  niggah. 
Den  he  put  in  de  rabbit-foot  en  alligateh  aigg, 
He  put  in  de  penny  dat  a  dumb  man  baig, 
En  a  snake's  front  toof  dat  stuck  a  niggah's  laig, — 
En  he  put  in  anothah  1'il  jiggah. 

Den  he  tek  dat  bag  en  he  cunjuh  you, 

He  cunjuh  you,  he  cunjuh  you; 

Whateveh  he  say,  he  kin  mek  you  do; 

You  got  no  chance  en  dat's  a  libbin'  fac', 

Onless  you  got  you  a  goofeh-jack. 

De  voodoo-doctah  he  mek  de  goofeh-jack, 
He  mek  de  goofeh-jack,  he  mek  de  goofeh-jack, 
F'om  a  stick  dat  grows  in  a  erf-quake  crack, 
Wif  a  shape  lek  a  bow-legged  niggah. 
Den  he  wrap  dat  stick  wif  a  li'l  flannel  rag 
Dat  once  was  a  part-er  a  cunjuh  bag, 
En  he  say  some  woids  lek  "Doodlegumbledag!" 
En  some  otheh  woids  a  heap  sight  biggeh. 
Den  if  some  low  niggah  done  cunjuh  you, 
Done  cunjuh  you,  done  cunjuh  you, 
Des  you  grab  dat  stick,  for  I  tells  you  true, 
You  got  no  chance  en  dat's  a  libbin'  fac', 
Onless  you  got  you  a  goofeh-jack. 


(70) 


Dey-us  ol'  Miss  Riley  was  a-was'in'  away, 
A-was'in'  away,  des  was'in'  right  away, 
Eatin'  bo'lles  er  medicine  ev'ry  single  day, 
But  I  wa'n't  gwine  for  to  trus'  it; 
So  I  des  git  a  goofeh  en  slip'  it  in  de  baid, 
En  it  sho  would  a  cu'ed  her,  lek  de  voodoo  say'd 
But  de  ve'y  next  mawnin',  suh,  she  wake  up  daid! 
'Caze  she  roll  on  de  goofeh-jack  en  bus'  it. 
So  if  some  low  niggah  done  cunjuh  you, 
Done  cunjuh  you,  done  cunjuh  you, 
You  be  right  smawt  caihful  now,  whateveh  you 

do; 

'Caze  you  got  no  chance,  en  dat's  a  libbin'  fac', 
Onless  you  got  a  goofeh-jack! 


(70 


TO     BE     READ. 


D 


THE  OLD  MAN  KNOWS. 

T"\AN,  you'll  never  find  another 

•^^     Like  the  hand  of  yer  old  mother, 

Which  has  worked  and  won  yer  bread. 

Yes,  more'n  that  if  all  be  said, 

Fer  she  won  and  then  she  made  it, 

An'  such  bread!   You  wouldn't  trade  it 

Fer  no  banquet,  if  you  knew 

How  you'll  hunger  when  she's  through 

Doin'  fer  you.     Don't  you  s'pose 

Like  enough  the  old  man  knows? 

Yes,  I  know  it  ain't  as  milky 
In  its  looks,  nor  yet  as  silky 
In  its  feel  as  some  hands  be. 
But  if  these  old  eyes  can  see, 
Ev'ry  line's  a  line  of  beauty, 
Er  a  mark  fer  well  done  duty! 
No  use  talkin',  Dan,  it's  so. 
Guess  the  old  man  ought  to  know. 

'Nd  how  ev'ry  faded  finger 
Loves  to  touch  you  'nd  to  linger 
Round  yer  hair.     You'll  understand 
Better,  some  day,  'bout  that  hand. 
Nothin*  else  can  do  as  much  as 
Them  same  tender,  peaceful  touches. 

(7*) 


\ 


RIMES     TO     BE     READ 


How  they  soothe  'nd  how  old  sorrow 
Sneaks,  until  some  sad  to-morrow. 
Dan,  O  Dan,  the  old  man  knows, 
He  had  a  mother,  don't  you  s'pose? 


(73) 


ADAM. 

A   DAM,  made  of  common  earth, 
**      Seemed  to  be  of  little  worth. 
Giving  him  his  full  desert, 
Still  he  seemed  as  cheap  as  dirt. 

Smacked  a  good  deal  of  the  soil, 
Adam  did,  but  shirked  all  toil. 
Yet  he  asked  no  man  for  trust, 
Being  simply  made  of  dust. 

Sandy  beard  and  sandy  hair; 
Also  had  a  stony  stare; 
And  before  his  flesh  ran  blood 
I  suppose  his  name  was  mud. 

Poor  old  Adam,  formed  in  clay, 
Wasn't  of  the  stuff  to  stay. 
One  more  process  was  required; 
That's  the  reason  he  was  fired! 


(74) 


NOT  A  COON-SONG  COON. 

T  'SE  a  right  smaht  niggeh, 
•••         I  kin  read  en  I  kin  figgeh, 

En  I  doesn't  nuvver,  nuvver  play  no  craps. 
I  doesn't  give  a  button 
Fo'  a  cake-walk  or  a  cuttin', 

En  dat  am  what  de  trouble  is,  pe'haps. 
I  doesn't  spen'  meh  dollahs 
On  no  shiny  shoes  en  collahs, 

En  meh  habits  sholy  ought  to  make  a  hit; 
But  de  ladies  seems  to  shake  me, 
En  dey's  not  a  one  '11  take  me — 

I  ain't  nuvver  is  had  a  gal  yit! 


Dey  wuz  coffee-cullud  Jinny 
En  Sooky  Loo  en  Minny 

En  freckled  Fan  en  Mandy  Ann  en  Sue; 
Dey  was  Tildy,  dey  was  Dinah 
En  Luce  en  little  Lina; 

(I  nuvver  wanted  on'y  des  a  few!) 
Dey  was  Nance  dat  married  Peter, 
En  I'se  moughty  glad  he  beat  her; 

En  Ulussus  wa'n't  no  better,  ca'se  dey  fit; 
But  she  wouldn't  leave  him,  no,  suh, 
Wouldn't  marry  me;  en  so,  suh, 

I  ain't  nuvver  is  had  a  gal  yit! 

(75) 


00 


RIMES     TO     BE     READ. 


I  has  sometimes  wunde'd 

Ef  dese  niggehs  has  'em  cunjuh'd; 

Ef  dey  hasn't,  it  am  somepin  moughty  queer! 
Dey  is  Race-Hoss  Bennie, 
He  doesn't  seem  so  many, 

But  he  gin'ally  gits  married  ev'y  year! 
Dey  was  Pete  have  seven 
En  he  gwinter  come  eleven 

En*  Ulussus  have  a  dozen  'fore  he  quit; 
Dey  all  done  have  so  many 
Dat  dey  has  n't  luff  me  any — 

I  ain't  nuvver  is  had  a  gal  yit! 


(76) 


na 


RIMES     TO     BE     READ 


AN  UNCONVENTIONAL  RUSTIC. 

•pO'TRY  fellers  says  we  like  to  drink 

*•         Worter   from   the    ol'   mill    stream, 

Like  to  git  down  on  the  brink 

So's    it    runs    right    down    our    stummick — "like    a 

dream," 

Says  them  po'try  men. 
Then  again 

They  say  how  we  love  to  draw  it  from  the  well — 
"Moss-bound  bucket,"  and  that  sort  o'  thin'. 
Says  we  much  prefer  a  gourd,  er  ole  sea  shell, 
Er  a  rusty  dipper,  made  o'  tin 
Fer  to  drink  it  in, 
But,  by  Gee! 
Yer  cut  glass,  Sewers  chiny  stuff  is  good  enough 

fer  me. 

Po'try  fellers  says  there  ain't  no  bed 
Quite  so  good  as  that  un  in  the  old  homestead. 
I  say  durn  it 
And  dad  burn  it! 

Durn  its  feather  bed-tick  that's  so  lean 
Yeh  sag  between 

All  the  slats  and  almost  touch  the  floor 
If  yeh  weighs  ten  pounds  or  more. 
If  you're  thin 
Not  a  bone  fits  in 
To  a  soft  spot 
Like  it  ought, 


(77) 


RIMES     TO     BE     READ 


But  rubs,  rubs,  rubs,  on  some  blame  slat; 
So  if  I  know  where  I'm  at, 
Hairy,  springy,  couchy  city  beds'll  do 
Fer  me,  I  jus'  tell  you! 

Po'try  fellers  says  if  we  have  stacks 

Of  ham  fer  breakfas',  coffee  an'  flap-jacks, 

With  a  dinner  of  biled  cabbage  an'  corn  beef, 

An'  p'serves  an'  pie  fer  supper,  you  got  lief 

To  have  all  the  rest.    Is  'at  so? 

Guess  if  they  met  me  they'd  likely  know 

That  I'd  take  some  olives,  lemon  ice, 

Lobster  salad,  bullion  an'  a  slice 

Of  boiled  tarpot,  with  some  tutty-frutty, 

An'  a  little  of  that  stuff,  a  la  spaghutty, 

Frummidge,  ice  cream  an'  assorted  pie, 

Quail  on  puddin',  sherbet,  oyster  fry — 

Anythin'  else  yeh  got, 

An'  fetch  her  quick  an'  hot. 

Coffee?    No,  sir,  take  the  stuff  away; 

Pomeroy  Chartruse,  extry  dry,  will  do  me  any  day. 

Po'try  fellers  says  we  love  to  walk, 
'Cause  it's  healthfuller  an'  lots  more  air 
Sizzles  through  yer  lungs,  an'  they  talk 
How  when  we  do  ride  'at  we  don't  care 
Fer  no  bridles,  but  jest  slides 
On  a  horse  an'  gits. 
Say  it  sort  o'  fits 
Us  most  to  take  straw-rides, 
(78) 


*R  else  to  ride  the  good  ol'-fashioned  way, 

In  the  family  shay, 

Which  ain't  got  no  springs, 

Ner  cushions,  an'  which  slings 

You'n  yer  girl  together  (which  yeh  like) 

Till  it  steadies  when  yeh  strike 

The  ol'  turn-pike. 

Po'try  fellers  talks  that  way, 

But  a-speakin*  fer  myself,  I  say 

A  autymobile-tally-ho  will  do  me  any  day. 

Po'try  fellers  further  says  our  homes 

Is  pomes, 

Says  the  flicker  of  the  fire-place  is  a  sight 

Chuck  full  of  warm  delight, 

While  the  winter  breezes  kindly  fans  yer  backs 

Through  the  cracks; 

Says  the  suller  an'  the  butt'ry  is  the  best 

To  keep  things  sweet  in, 

An'  the  sittin*  room's  fer  rest, 

An'  the  kitchen  fer  to  eat  in. 

Says  there  ain't  no  place  on  earth  quite  like  the 

attic, 

Speshly  when  the  weather's  rainy  an'  rumattic, 
An'  it  spatters  on  the  roof  an'  on  the  pane, 
(Not  the  rumytism  doesn't,  but  the  rain!) 
Which  is  very  slick  an'  pretty, 
But  them  houses  in  the  city, 
All  fixed  up  like  ole  Queen  Annie's  used  to  be, 


(79) 


n 

a 


=£0= 


Brown  stone  roof  an'  mansard  front — by  Gee! 
Such  a  house  is  good  enough  fer  me! 

Po'try  fellers  takes  a  lot  o'  pains 

To  show  they  got  no  brains, 

But  the  foolest  thing  they  does — it  seems  to  me — 

Is  to  chalk 

Down  the  darndest  lot  of  words  you  ever  see 

An'  say  that's  how  we  talk. 

Gosh  all  hemlock!    Why  they  chop 

Half  the  words  to  pieces  an'  they  stop 

'Fore  they've  finished  spellin'  of  'em, 

An'  they're  full  of  little  wiggles  up  above  'em. 

Why,  ther  spellin'  would  disgrace  the  dumbest  fool 

In  the  spellin'  class  at  Districk  School. 

An'  ther  grammar's  the  most  worse  you  ever  see! 

Why,  if  you  an'  me 

Couldn't  talk  no  more  corrector — Geemeenee! 

'Scuse  me,  but  it  makes  me  hot  to  see  things  wrote 

that  way. 
Good,  old  Angly  Saxon  English  talk  is  my  ch'ice 

any  day. 


(80) 


BEFORE   PLAYING   TINKERTOWN. 

(A     Distinguished     Citizen    Advises    the    Advance 
Agent.) 

Q*O  you're  goan  to  give  a  show? 
**^  Well,  I  s'pose   you  likely  know 
Yer  own  bus'ness,  but  I'm  glad 
— Ez  fer  me — I  never  had 
Money  in  the  show  biz  here, 
Fer  our  folks  is  mighty  queer. 
An'  you  see  when  they  first  built 
Our  new  Op'ry  House,  they  kilt 
The  hull  business,  'cause  they  give 
More  shows  than  could  run — an'  live. 


"Give  two  in  one  week,  one  time. 

One  was  minstrels.    They  was  prime! 

But  what  kilt  us  was  the  other; 

Some  blame  lecturer  or-ruther 

Talked  about  a  Chiny  wall 

An'  a  Pyramids  an'  all 

That  there  sort  o'  rot.    An'  so, 

Bein'  as  folks  had  paid,  you  know, 

Fifteen  cents  to  see  a  show, 

Lots  of  'em  felt  ruther  sore 

An'  don't  go  to  shows  no  more. 


(81) 


"Course  your  show  is  good?    No  doubt. 
But  you  see  the  town's  showed  out; 
Less'n  three  weeks  back  we  had 
Hamlut.      Had  it  purty  bad. 
Actors — they  was  purty  fair, 
Speshly  one  with  yeller  hair. 
He  had  talunt!    He  could  shout 
An'  jes'  drown  the  others  out! 
But  the  play  itself  was  sad. 
'Sides  it  was  a  draggy,  bad 
Sort  of  sadness.    Didn't  begin 
To  come  up  to  ol'  East  Lynne! 


"Jabez  Tubbs,  he  sez,  sez  he, 
'I'll  take  ol'  East  Lynne  fer  me, 
Mebbe  these  new  plays  is  fine, 
But  I'll  take  the  ol'  fer  mine.' 
'Scuse  me  fer  goan  on  this  way, 
But  I'm  'feared  yer  show  won't  pay. 


"It's  a  bad  week  fer  a  show, 
'Cause  most  folks  that  gits  to  go 
Is  a-restin*  up  jest  now 
Fer  the  Social.     An'  that's  how 
Things  most  always  is  'round  here. 
P'r'aps  there's  nothin'  fer  a  year, 
Then,  first  thing  a  feller  knows, 
We're  just  overrun  with  shows. 
(82) 


RIMES     TO     BE 


"P'r'aps  a  little  later  might 
Find  a  better  week  an'  night. 
Still,  I  dunno,  fer  ye  see 
P'tracted  meetin'  soon'll  be, 
An'  of  course  you  know  that's  free, 
An'  that  nachelly  kills  a  show 
Where  you  got  to  pay  to  git  to  go." 


(83) 


A  LITTLE  SAUNTER. 

HEN  the  sun's  a-comin*  up  'nd  ole  Earth  is 

wet, 
Jest  as  though  he'd  washed  his  face  'nd  hedn't  dried 

it  yet; 
Birds    fer    miles    'nd    miles    around     chipperin'    'n' 

singin', 
Pigs    a-gruntin*    music    fer    the    feed    the    man's   a 

bringin', 

Rooster  crowin'  fit  to  split  round  the  kitchen  door, 
Ans'erin*    "Good    mornin',"    to    a    half    a     dozen 

more, — 
Other  folks  can  roust  around,  but  for  me  I  wanter 

Take  a  little  saunter, 
Fill  up  full  of  green  'nd  blue  in  a  little  saunter. 


When  the  sun's  a-goin'  down,  lazy  ez  you  please, 
Settin'  good  example  fer  a  man  to  take  his  ease; 
Cows  a-lyin',  chewin',  'nd  a-wobblin',  early  bat 
Er  a  sparreh,  half  asleep,  flies  a-past  yer  hat; 
When  yev  hed  yer  supper  'nd  the  world  seems  good; 
When  the   air,  jest  lazin'   round,   smells   of   piney 

wood, — 
'Tain't  no  time  to  roust  around,  'nd  fer  me,  I  wanter 

Take  a  little  saunter, 
Jest  hang  back  'n'  let  my  legs  take  a  little  saunter. 


(84) 


RIMES     TO     BE     READ. 


When  you  almost  feel  the  moon  a-shinin'  on  yer 

back, 

(See  her  in  the  warter  'nd  she  seems  to  make  a  track 
Leadin'  off  to  Heaven,  jest  a  easy  distance  walkin';) 
When  it's  all  so  still,  a  sound  seems  like  silence 

talkin'; 

Starry  eyes  a-gawpin'  like  the  childern's  to  a  story; 
Room  fer  nothin'  nowhere  'ceptin'  night  'nd  God  'nd 

glory, — 
I  jest  dassent  roust  around,  'nd  I  never  wanter 

Do  no  more  than  saunter, 
Fill  up  full  of  shiny  peace  in  a  little  saunter! 


(85) 


REVENGE. 

T7"EN  ich  und  Gretchen  married  got, 

*       Mein  olt  frient  Dunkelschwarzenrath, 
He  don'd  coom  vere  my  veddin  ees, 
Becos  I  nefer  gone  by  hees! 

Aber,  I  get  me  efen  yet. 
Dot  Dunkelschwarzenrath  is  deat. 
I  don'd  go  by  hees  fooneral — nein! — 
Becos  he  nefer  gone  by  mine! 


(86) 


UNVERSTAENDLICH. 

TTV  HE  contrariest  t'ing  on  dhe  Erd  is  men, 
•"•^      Aber  vimmens  arr   twice   so   contrary   again, 
Andt  I  am  yoost  so  contrary  as  you, 
Andt  you  arr  as  worse  as  dhe  worst  one,  too; 

Now,  ain'd  dhat  zo? 

You  like  to  haf  hoonger  by  dinner,  you  say, 
Aber  vhy  do  you  eadt,  so  dhat  hoonger  go  Vay? 
You  like  to  be  tired,  so  you  schleep  like  a  top, 
Andt  you  like  to  go  schleep,  so  dhat  tired  feeling 
shtop; 

Now,  ain'd  dhat  zo? 

You  like  to  have  sugar  on  sauer  t'ings  you  eadt 
Andt  you  like  to  haf  sauer  mit  dhe  t'ings  vhat  arr 

sweet. 

You  like  to  be  cold  vhen  dhe  vetter  is  hot. 
Andt  vhen  it  is  cold,  ach,  how  varm  you  vould  got! 

Now,  ain'd  dhat  zo? 

How  you  shdare  at  dhe  man  vhat  can  valk  up  dhe 

street 
On  his  handts,  yet  you  valk  twice  so  goodt  on  your 

feet. 

Vhat  a  long  mind  you  haf,  if  I  am  in  your  debt, 
Budt  if  you  arr  in  mine,  O,  how  quick  you  forget! 

Now,  ain'd  dhat  zo? 


(87) 


Are  you  single?    You  like  to  be  married,  of  course. 
Are  you  married?     Most  likely  you  like  a  divorce! 
Andt  if  you  vas  get  you  unmarried,  why  dhen 
You  go  righd  avay  and  got  married  again. 

Now,  ain'd  dhat  zo? 

You  vant  yoost  a  liddle  more  money?  Dhat's  true; 
Andt  dhere's  Mistare  Vanderbilt;  he  vants  dhat  too. 
You  remember  dhat  time  dhat  you  wish  you  arr 

deadt? 

Budt  if  I  trry  to  kill  you,  you  boost  in  my  headt; 

Now,  ain'd  dhat  zo? 

Zo,  I  t'ink  I  pelief  only  haf  vhat  I  know 
Andt  dhe  half  I  pelief  is  dhe  part  vhat  ain'd  zo. 
Aber,  I  don'd  complain,  for  dhat  makes  me  no  use, 
For  if  I  am  a  Esel,  vhy  you  arr  a  goose; 

Now,  ain'd  dhat  zo? 

It  is  bedter  to    laugh;  it  is  foolish  to  fight 

Yoost  because  I  am  wrong  and  because  you  ain'd 

right. 

It  is  bedter  to  laugh  mit  dhe  vorld,  up  andt  down 
From   dhe   sole   of   our  headt  to   dhe   foot   of   our 

crown;  Now,  ain'd  dhat  zo? 

Zo,  dhen  you  laugh  at  me  andt  dhen  I  laugh  at  you, 
Andt  dhe  more  dhat  you  laugh  vhy  dhe  more  I 

laugh,  too, 

Andt  ve  laugh  till  ve  cry!  Vhen  ve  cry,  aber  dhen, 
Ve  will  bot'  feel  zo  goot  ve  go  laughing  again! 

Now,  ain'd  dhat  zo? 
(88) 


KATIE  AN'  ME. 

ATIE  an  me  a'n't  ingaged  anny  moor. 

Och,  but  the  heart  of  me's  breakin',  fer  sure! 
The  moon  has  turned  grane  and  the  sun  has  turned 

yallow, 

And  Oi  am  turned  both  and  a  different  fallow. 
The  poipe  of  me  loiftoime  is  losin'  its  taste; 
Some  illigant  whuskey  is  goin*  to  waste; 
Me  heart  is  that  impty  and  also  me  arrum; 
Pertaties  an'  bacon  have  lost  all  their  charrum, 
And  Oi  feel  like  a  tombstone,  wid  crape  on  the  dure 
Since  Katie  and  me  a'n't  ingaged  anny  moor. 

Yit  most  of  the  world  is  a-movin'  alang 

As  if  there  was  nawthin'  at  all  goin'  wrang. 

Oi  notice  the  little  pigs  lie  in  the  mud, 

An'  the  fool  of  a  cow  is  still  chewin'  her  cud; 

The  shky  is  still  blue  and  the  grass  is  still  bright; 

The  stars  shine  in  hivin  in  paceful  delight; 

The  little  waves  dance  on  the  brist  of  the  lake; 

Tim  Donnelly's  dead  an'  they're  havin*  a  wake, 

An*  the  world's  rich  in  joy!  and  it's  only  me's  poor, 

Since  Katie  and  me  a'n't  ingaged  anny  moor. 

She  was  always  that  modest  and  swate.    Oi  declare 
She  wud  blush  full  as  rid  as  her  illigant  hair 
At  the  t'ought  of  another  man  stalin'  the  taste 
Of  her  lips,  or  another  man's  arrum  'round  her  waist. 


(89) 


=0(3= 


RIMES     TO     BE     READ 


An'  now — och,  McCarney,  luk  out,  or  Oi'll  break 
Yer  carcass  in  fragmints  an'  dance  at  yer  wake, 
As  you're  dancin'  at  Donnelly's!  What  shud  Oi  fear? 
Purgatory?    Not  mooch,  fer  the  same  is  right  here. 
Wid  me  heart  on  the  briler,  an'  niver  a  cure, 
Since  Katie  and  me  a'n't  ingaged  anny  moor. 


(90) 


DAT  GAWGY  WATAHMILLON. 

/~\ ,    DAT    Gawgy    watahmillon,    an'    dat    gal    ob 

^•^          Gawgy  wif  'm! 

She  foun'  'm  an'  she  poun'  'm  an'  he  ripe  enough  to 

lif  'm. 

I  tote  'm  to  de  well  an'  den  we  cool  'm  in  de  watah, 
An'  we  bress  de  Lawd  foh  libin',  like  a  Gawgy  nig- 

gah  ought  to. 
She  pat  him  an'  she  punk  him,  like  ol'  mammy  wif 

de  chillun, 
An*  ma  haht  it  done  keep  punkin*  ev'y  time  she  punk 

de  millon! 

I  look  into  huh  yalla  eyes  an'  feel  dat  I  can  trus'  'm, 
An'  den  I  take  de  millon  an'  I  drop  'm  down  an'  bus' 

'm. 
O,  dat  Gawgy  watahmillon  wif  de  sweet  an'  coolin* 

flowin' ! 
Poke  youah  face  deep  down,  ma  honey,  an'  jes'  keep 

youah  mouf  a-goin'. 
Dar  ain't  no  use  ob  talkin',  but  I  'clar  to  Gord  I'se 

willin* 
Foh  to  nebeh  hab  no  heab'n  'cept  dat  Gawgy  gal  an' 

millon! 

Foh   dey  filled  de  haht  an'  stomach   ob   dis  happy 

Gawgy  niggah, 
An'  he  couldn'  be  no  fullah,  'less  de  Lohd  done  make 

him  biggah. 

(90 


Lohdy,  Lohdf   I'se  done  been  dreamin'  an'  my  haht 

is  mos*  a-breakin', 
An'  ma  lips  dey  is  a-burnin'  an'  ma  stomach  is  a 

achin*. 
I  been  dreamin'  ob  de  summah  an*  ma  mouf  is  jes' 

a-fillin' 
Foh  dat  honey  gal  ob  Gawgy  an'  dat  Gawgy  watah- 

millon! 


RIMES      TO     BE     READ. 


NATHAN'S    FLAT. 

TVT  ATHAN  wrote  that  he  'n*  his  wife  was  livin'  in 

*-*      a  flat. 

"Gracious  me!"  says  mother,  "why,  what  sort  o' 

place  is  that?" 
"Well,"  I  says,  "it's  one  o'  them  there  places,  don't 

you  know, 

'At  folks  live  in,  likely,"  an'  mother  says,  "Jesso!" 
But  'bout  a  half  hour  later,  she  broke  out,  "I'd  give 

a  cent 
If  I  could  sort  o'  puzzle  out  what  Nathan  really 

meant." 

Now,  ain't  that  like  a  woman?    You  can  tell  'em 

what  is  what; 
You  can  show  'em  plain  as  preachin',  but  it's  just  as 

like  as  not 
When  ye've  argied  an'  convinced  'em  an*  yeh  think 

ye've  surely  fetched  'em, 
They'll  bust  out  just  where  they  started,  same  as 

though  yeh  hadn't  teched  'em. 
"Well,"  I  says,  "we'll  go  to  see  'em,  then,  an'  that'll 

stop  yer  clatter," 
For  I  own  that  I  was  cur'ous  like,  myself,  about  the 

matter! 
So  we  went  an'  Nathan  met  us.    Wa'n't  we  glad  to 

see  his  face! 
An*  he  rid  us  on  a  cable  till  we  reached  a  stoppin' 

place, 

(93) 


RIMES     TO     BE     REA 

? 


An'  says,  "Here  we  are!"  an'  first  I  knowed  I  was 

a-standin'  there 

A-gawpin'  at  a  buildin'  that  was  higher  in  the  air 
Than  the  Presbyterian  steeple.     An'  I   says,  "My 

conscience,  Nat, 
It  can't  be  sech  a  stuck-up  thing  is  what  yeh  call  a 

flat?" 
But  he  only  smiled  an'  nodded  an'  he  took  us  in  the 

hall, 
An'  mother  says,  "Why,  Nathan,  dew  yeh  occipy  it 

all?" 

Then  we  got  into  a  little  coop,  an'  Nathan  he  says 
"Seven!" 

An'  in  another  second  we  was  shootin'  up  to 
heaven. 

Mother  shet  her  teeth  an'  belt  her  breath  an'  trem 
bled  'roun'  the  eyes, 

An'  my  heart  fell  in  my  stomach,  it  was  sech  a  sud 
den  rise. 

Then,  in  another  jiffy,  we  was  into  Nathan's  flat — 

Six  rooms,  about  the  size  o'  three,  an'  darn  small 
three  at  that. 

But  some  things  was  pretty  handy.  They  was  places 
in  the  wall 

Where  ye'd  go  an'  talk  to  people  'at  yeh  couldn't 
see  at  all. 

There  was  one  place  where  ye'd  turn  a  wheel  to 
squirt  a  little  heat, 

An*  the  cellar  was  a  little  box  containin'  things  to 
eat.  (94) 


=00= 


Then    there    was    one    extravygance    'at    mother 

thought  a  sin; 
They  had  spiled  a  good-sized  clo'se-press  fer  to  put 

a  bath-tub  in. 
Gee!  it  made  me  think  o'  tombstones,  it  was  all  so 

white  and  shiny, 
But  mother  she  peeked  into  it  an'  says  "I  vum;  it's 

chiny !" 
Nathan's  wife  was  kind  o'  laughin',  so  I  fixed  my 

eyes   on  her, 
An'   says,  solemn,   "Read  yer   Bible   of  the   whited 

sepulchre ! 

"Bath-tubs!  Why,  if  I'd  a  mind  to,  I  could  tell  yeh 

pretty  quick 
Of  the  time  when  Nathan's  bath-tub  was  the  hull  o' 

Simpson's  creek! 
An'  the  sunshine  was  his  only  towel,  or  if  by  any 

chance, 
He  couldn't  wait  fer  dryin',  why  he  used  his  coat  an' 

pants. 
An'  on  Sat'dy  nights  in  winter,  mother'd  fetch  the 

washin'-tub, 
An'  she'd  heat  enough  of  water  fer  all  han's  to  take 

a  scrub, 
An'  she'd  pester  Nat,  'Git  ready!'  till  at  last  he'd 

sort  o'  squeak, 
'Ma,  I  honest  don't  believe  I  hardly  need  a  bath  this 

week!' 

(95) 


S      TO      BE      READ 


But  she'd  shet  him  in  the  kitchen,  an'  he'd  grunt  an' 

puff  an'  spatter, 
Till  you'd  thought  a  steamboat  bust-up  was  the  least 

could  be  the  matter." 

"Yes,  an'  then  I'd  mop,"  says  mother,  "an'  blow  out 

the  kitchen  light, 
An'   I'd  foller   Nat   upstairs   to   kiss   my   little   boy 

'Good  night!' 
An'  it  kind  o*  seemed  that  me  an'  God  was  watchin' 

there  by  Nat, 
But  I  don't  believe  I'd  ever  have  sech  feelin's  in  a 

flat!" 


(96) 


RIMES     TO     BE     READ. 


"OUR   CLUB."— THE   IRISH   MEMBER'S 
TOAST. 


TPHE  sharp  edge  of  hunger  was  turned  and  the 
1       Chair 

Arose  to  inform  us  we  all  might  prepare 
For  a  story,  a  toast,  or  any  good  bit 
Which  entered  the  head  of  an  owner  of  wit, 
And  for  fear  Brother  Milliken's  tongue  should  grow 

balky, 

By  mixing  Kentucky  with  part  of  Milwaukee, 
We'd  hear  from  him  first,  and  his  toast  was  "Our 

Club." 


As  soon  as  his  fellows  had  laughed  at  the  rub 
Which  the  chairman  had  given  the  Irishman  rose, 
Upholding  his  liquid,  and  said,  "I  suppose 
Ivry  mother's  gossoon  of  ye's  achin'  to  drink 
The  toast  to  our  club,  so  let  yer  bowls  clink! 
Yez  can  drink  it  in  potcheen  or  drink  it  in  watter, 
An',  barrin'  the  taste,  I  would  say,  drink  the  latter; 
Fer  if  yez  do  not,  I  will  give  ye  fair  warnin', 
Ye'll  find  that  it's  watter  ye  want  in  the  marnin'. 
But  drink  watter  now  an'  ye'll  feel  extry  foine 
An'  won't  be  a-wantin'  a  hat  noomber  noine, 
Fer  I'll  tell  ye  the  trut'— to  the  shame  of  the  divil— 
It  don't  do  to  treat  the  potcheen  over  civil. 


(97) 


==00= 


ES     TO     BE     READ 


Just  as  sure  as  ye  open  yer  door  to  the  cratur, 
He  hints  that  his  brother  is  finer  or  nater, 
An'  then  they  both  say  that  their  coosin  is  swater, 
An'  then  that  the  family  should  be  more  complater, 
An'  they  have  a  gay  toime  an'  ye  find,  to  yer  sorra, 
Though     ye'll     swear    they    were     lodged    in    yer 

stomach,  begorra, 
Yet  all  of  e'm's  oop  in  yer  head,  by  tomorra! 

"But  drink  to  our  club  in  what  liquid  ye  wish; 
Drink  deep  as  a  camel  and  free  as  a  fish. 
Though  we  call  it  a  club,  let  that  club  be  a  staff! 
Let  it  always  be  used  in  a  brother's  behalf — 
A  support  for  his  need  and  a  rest  for  his  hand! 
Though  we  call  it  a  club,  let  that  club  be  a  wand! — 
The  same  as  thim  wands  that  the  fairies  used  much. 
Let  no  heart  be  so  hard  but  to  melt  at  its  touch! 
As  we  call  it  a  club,  when  we  see  anny  wrang, 
Let  us  take  up  our  club  an'  go  after  it  strang; 
Let  it  swing   for  the   right,  brothers,  nightly  and 

daily, 
Though  we  call  it  a  club,  let  it  be  a  shillaly!" 


(98) 


"OUR   LADIES."— THE   POET'S   TOAST. 

A    TOAST  from  the  poet,  I  think,  would  be  pleas 
ant," 

Cried  he  at  the  banquet's  head. 

"A  toast  from  the  poet!"  cried  every  one  present, 
And  the  poet  arose  and  said: 


"Mr.  Chairman,  I  greet  you  and  all  of  your  host; 
My  comrades,  your  friendship  is  ever  my  boast; 
And  lastly,  fair  ladies,  'tis  you  whom  I  toast. 
Though  I  mention  you  last,  it  is  not  my  intent 
To  reckon  you  least.    First  in  worth  is  not  meant 
When  we  place  the  soft  mollusk  or  thin  consomme 
At  the  top  of  the  menu,  and  no  one  will  say 
The  piece  de  resistance  is  less  of  a  dish 
Just  because  further  down  on  the  list  than  the  fish. 


"Mother  Eve,  you  remember,  was  last  in  formation, 
Which  proves  she  was  apex  of  all  the  creation, 
For  first  appeared  grasses  and  herbs  and  the  fruits, 
And  then  came  the  fishes,  the  fowls  and  the  brutes, 
Then  Adam;  and  mark  you  how  each  form   grew 

higher. 

But  still  there  was  left  something  more  to  desire, 
For  though  all  life  was  there,  flora,  fauna  and  hu 
man, 

Paradise  could  not  be  until  also  was  woman. 
(99) 


And  so  she  was  made  from  a  small,  bony  part 

Which  is  nearest  (please  note  well  the  symbol) 
man's  heart. 

And  hence,  since  that  time,  'tis  man's  chiefest  en 
deavor 

To  get  back  that  rib,  and  'twill  be  so  forever. 

"How   broad    is    the    theme    of    my    toasting — Our 

Ladies! 
Proud     daughters     of     Guelph     and     the     Misses 

O'Gradys, 

The  Fraulein  of  Berlin,  the  Donas  of  Cadiz, 
The  Annas,  the  Fannies,  the  Adas,  the  Sadies, 
All,  all,  in  some  masculine  hearts  are  'Our  Ladies.' 

"Our  Ladies?    Our  mothers,  queen-angels  of  Earth. 
Our  wives,  or  our  sweethearts — tongue  fails  at  your 

worth ! 

O,  is  there  a  grief  which  o'ershadows  the  day 
Which  by  woman's  soft  breath  is  not  wafted  away? 
O,  is  there  a  heart,  adamantine,  austere, 
Which  melts  not  beneath  a  pure,  womanly  tear? 
And  what  soured  ascetic  who  does  not  rejoice 
In   the   grace   of  her   glance,   of  her   smile,  of  her 

voice? 

"O,  have  you  an  armor,  so  tempered,  so  true, 
That  a  woman's  sharp  tongue  cannot  pierce  through 
and  through? 

(100) 


And  tell  me  of  arguments,  reasons  or  laws, 
Which  bear  half  of  the  weight  of  a  woman's  'Be 
cause.' 

"Our  Ladies,  enduring,  considerate,  meek; 

Our  Ladies,  contrary,  irrational,  weak; 

Kind  hearted,  yet  cruel;  obliging,  perverse, 

Which  is  why  they  are  taken  'for  better  or  worse.' 

"Do  you  think  the  description  is  rather  complex? 
So  it  is,  but  just  so  is  the  feminine  sex; 
Yet  without  the  sex,  Heaven  itself  were  a  Hades, 
For  Heaven  is  anywhere  where  are  Our  Ladies." 


p 

4 


TO     BE     READ 


AFTER-DINNER   APOLOGY   OF   LE 
COMTE  CRAPAUD. 

T  VOULD  you  make  ze  little  speak  avec  plaisir, 
A      Boat  et  ess  not  moach  long  zat  I  been  here, 
Ant  I  am  timid  zat  I  speak  soam  wrong, 
Becos  I  know  zis  langvids  not  moach  long. 


"Zis  Englees  langvids  I  not  understand  me  moach. 

Eet  ees  not  logical,  eef  I  can  jodge, 

For  eet  ees  not  long  since  I  am  invite 

Au  Chi-ca-go  to  see  ze  many  sight. 

Ant  zere  I  fint  I  alvays  spoke  ze  vay 

I  do  not  spoke  to  spoke  ze  vhat  I  say. 

Zey  to  me  show  ze  building  high,  high,  high! 

Zey  call  him,  voila!   scraper-of-ze-sky. 

I  look  oapon  ze  mud  down  at  ze  street 

Ant  wish  zey  had  ze  scraper-of-ze-street. 


"Zey  take  me  to  ze  yard  vhere  ees  ze  stock — 

Ze    peeg — ten    tousan'   tousan'   peeg — vat   you    call 

'hock!' 

Zat  night  at  a  re-cep-se-ong,  zey  to  me  say, 
'Ant  how  you  like  Chi-ca-go  zees  fairst  day?' 
I  say  'Oh,  magnifique!    I  not  can  like  it  more; 
I  never  meet  so  many  hock  in  all  my  life  before!' 
But  zen  I  fint  I  have  not  spoke  ze  vay 
I  ought  to  spoke  to  spoke  ze  vhat  I  say. 
(102) 


rJ 


"Zen  some  one  speak  about  ze  trust  ant  I  say  out, 
'Vhat  ees  zees  trust  I  hear  so  moach  about?' 
Zey  say  eet  ees  a  com-bin-a-se-ong  of  ze  stock. 
'Stock?    stock?'    I    say.     'Zen    ees    ze    trust    more 

"hock!"' 

Zey  say  zat  I  have  right  ant  zen  zey  roar, 
Ant  ah!  I  fint  I  am  a  zhoke  once  more. 
I  fint  zere  ees  a  trust  in  zees — in  zat, 
Trust  in  ze  shoe  down  here,  oap  in  ze  hat, 
A  trust  in  vhat  you  eat,  you  drink,  you  wear, 
A  trust  in  eferyzing  ant  eferyvhere! 
By  gar,  I  meet  a  man  zat  have  a  vife — 
La  plus  jolie  I  ever  see  in  all  my  life. 
Zat  genteel  man  he  say,  he  tells  me,  sir, 
He  have  a  trust,  a  pairfect  trust — in  her! 
Trust  in  hees  vife!  ma  foi!    I  am  so  shock! 
Ant  zen  I  ask  vhat  he  will  take  for  all  ze  stock. 
But  ah!  I  find  he  have  not  spoke  ze  vay 
He  ought  to  spoke  to  spoke  ze  vat  he  say. 

"For  eet  ees  soach  a  fonny  langvids,  oui! 
Not  long  ago,  one  evening,  coam  to  me 
One  ver'  good  friend,  as  eet  ees  getting  dark 
Ant  say,  'Coam,  let  us  go  upon  ze  lark,' 
I  say  'Eh  bien,  I  go,'  for  I  not  like  to  tell 
Zat  I  not  understand  him  ver'  moach  well. 
A  lark?   Zat  ees  a  bird,  selon  Webstaire, 
Ze  gentilman  zat  write  ze  dictionaire; 
Boat,  ah!  I  fint  I  haf  not  understood. 
I  fint  zis  lark  ees  not  a  bird  rnoach  good. 
(103) 


RIMES     TO     BE 


"Eet  ees  ver'  late  zat  I  am  get  to  bed 

Ant  zen  I  feel  so  strange  oap  in  ze  head. 

I  am  so  bad  I  not  can  sleep,  ant  so 

I  rise  moach  early  ant  I  go  below; 

Ant  zere  I  fint  ze  hotel-clerk  who  coam  ant  say 

'Monsieur,  you  get  oap  wiz  ze  lark  to-day!' 

I  say  'Non,  non,  madame;  oh,  my  poor  head! 

Eet  ees  wiz  zat  bad  bird  I  went  to  bed! 

I  not  get  oap  wiz  him.    You  are  moach  wrong; 

I  am  alreaty  wiz  zat  bird  too  long.' 

"He  laugh  so  moach  I  seenk  his  face  ees  break; 
I  not  know  why  onless  I  speak  meestake; 
Ant  so,  I  will  not  make  ze  speak  to-night, 
For  I  am  timid  zat  I  not  speak  right." 


(104) 


"THE  OTHER  ONE  WAS  BOOTH." 

(Suggested  by  conversations  with  certain  "retired" 
actors.) 

TVTOW,  by  the  rood,  as  Hamlet  says,  it  grieves  me 

•"      sore  to  say 

The  stage  is  not  as  once  it  was,  when  I  was  wont 

to  play; 
'Tis  true  Hank  Irving,  dear  old  chap,  still  gives  a 

decent  show, 
And  Mansfield  and  Ed  Willard  really  act  the  best 

they  know; 
'Tis  true  that  Duse  and  Bernhardt,  for  we  mustn't  be 

too  hard, 
Are  very  fair   (for  women)   though  of  course  they 

ought  to  guard 
Against  some  bad-art  tendencies;  but  as  for  all  the 

rest, 
There's  hardly  one,  I  may  say  none,  who  stands  the 

artist's  test. 
True  artists  are  a  rare,  rare  breed;  there  were  but 

two,  forsooth, 
In  all  me  time,  the  stage's  prime;  and  the  other  one 

was  Booth. 

"Why,    Mac — I    mean    Macready — but    we    always 

called  him  Mac, 
And  old  Ned  Forrest  used  to  say,  or  so  they  once 

told  Jack; 

(105) 


==00= 


TO     BE     READ 


Or,  that  is,  Jack  McCullough,  that — well,  this  is 
what  they  said; 

'There  were  but  two  who  really  knew  how  Shake 
speare  should  be  read.' 

They  didn't  mean  the  younger  Kean,  or  Jack;  and 
so  perhaps 

It  caused  a  little  jealousy  among  the  lesser  chaps. 

They  said  that  Larry  Barrett  was  entitled  to  re 
spect, 

But  as  for  Torn  Salvini,  well,  his  dago  dialect 

Would  never  do  for  Shakespeare;  so  to  tell  the  sim 
ple  truth, 

There  were  only  two  men  in  it;  and  the  other  one 
was  Booth. 

"Don't   think   conceit  is   in   me   tongue;   'tis   some 
thing  I  detest; 
But  I  may  say  that  in  me  day  I've  figured  with  the 

best. 
Why,  Kalamazoo,  and  Oshkosh,  too,  and  Kankakee 

as  well, 
Went  fairly  wild,  nor  man,  nor  child,  stirred  when 

the  curtain  fell. 
The  S.  R.  O.  was  hung  each  night;  our  show  was 

such  a  rage 
They    took   the    ushers    off    the    floor   and   ushered 

from  the  stage. 
From  Buzzard's  Bay  to  San  Jose,  from  Nawrleans 

to  Duluth, 
Just  two  stars  hit  a  little  bit;  and  the  other  one  was 

Booth.  (106) 


RIMES     TO     BE     READ 


"I  liked  Ned  Booth,  for  he  was  such  a  royal-hearted 

fellow, 

We  never  had  a  jealousy.    When  he  put  on  Othello 
His  lago  was  much  like  to  mine,  likewise  his  stage 

direction; 
But  what  cared  Ed.  what  critics  said,  since  I  made 

no  objection? 

Ah,  me!   That  day  is  past;  the  play  has  lost  its  hon 
ored  station; 
Who   reads   aright   rage,    sorrow,   fright,   or   tragic 

desolation? 
Aye,  who  can  reach  to  Hamlet's  speech,  'To  be  or 

not  to  be?' 
Or  wild  Macbeth's  cry,  'Never  shake  thy  gory  locks 

at  me!' 
Or   Lear's   appeal:   'O,   let   me   not  be   mad,   sweet 

Heavens,  not  mad!' 
Or  Shylock's  rage:  'I'll  have  me  bond!'  Ah,  me;  it 

makes  me  sad 
To  think  it  all,  and  then  recall  the   drama  of  me 

youth, 
When  there  were  two  who  read  lines  true;  and  the 

other  one  was  Booth." 


(107) 


™J 


GOING   HOME   TO   MOTHER. 

T  T  was  fifty  years  ago,  and  one  day  we 
A      Had  et  our  dinner  by  a  big  oak  tree. 
(I  often  wonder  if  that  tree  still  stands, 
It's  green  arms  beckonin'  to  tired  farm-hands.) 
It  wa'n't  quite  time  to  go  to  work  again, 
When    one    young   chap   he   jumps   up   quick   and 
then, — 


"I'm  a-goin'  home  to  mother,  boys,"  he  said, 
"Although    she    doesn't    know   it,    an'   perhaps    she 

thinks  I'm  dead. 

I  went  away  when  I  was  young,  y'  see, 
But  now  I'm  over  twenty  and  I  got  more  sense," 

says  he. 


"I    swear    I    don't    know   why    I   went,"    he    says. 
"Somehow, 

The  very  strongest  reasons  then  seem  mighty  fool 
ish  now. 

Some  thoughtless  word  I  said  stirred  up  the  brine; 

I  s'pose  no  mother  never  loved  a  son  much  more'n 
mine," 

He  said,  "and  every  least  word  hurt.    What  fools  we 
are 

To  never  learn  the  careless  cut  may  leave  the  deep 
est  scar! 

(108) 


S     T  O     B  E     R  E~7T5~T 


"But  now  I'm  goin'  home  again,"  he  said. 

"I'm  like  the  prodigal  and  tired  of  husks  instead  of 

bread. 
I'll  tell  her  I  was  wrong! — and  bless  her!  she  was 

human. 
O,  yes,  I  know;  I  said  'twas  no  use  talkin'  to  an 

angry  woman, 

But  Lord!  a  woman  might  be  'woman'  to  another, 
But  to   her   boy   she   oughtn't   to   be   anything  but 

mother. 

"An'  so  I'm  goin'- home  again,"  he  said. 

"My  shoulder  is  just  achin'  for  the  pressure  of  her 

head. 

My  lips  are  fixed  to  show  her  what  is  what, 
And  these  arms  will  soon   convince  her  how  long 

and  strong  they've  got. 

"You  can  laugh,  boys,  if  you  want,"  the  youngster 

said, 
His   lips   a-pressin'   tighter   and   a   firmness    to   his 

head, 
But   there   wasn't    any   laughin'.      When   you   look 

deep  down  a  heart 
An'   see   its   noblest   feelin's,   'tisn't  laughter   that'll 

start. 

"But  here's  for  home  and  mother,  boys!"  he  said, 
And   he   went.      God   help   him!    for   he   found   his 
mother  dead. 

(109) 


ES       ?OBE          EAD. 


She  had  died — died  callin'  for  him,  and  her  breast 
Never  knew  whose  stricken  head  sunk  there  to  rest. 

"I'm  a-goin'  home  to  mother,"  he  had  said, 

But  O,  the   mighty  difference  when  the  lovin'  lips 

are  dead; 

A  coffin  is  an  awful  thing  for  a  fellow's  last  em 
brace, 
And  your  hottest  tears  can  never  warm  that  cold 

'nd  quiet  face. 
Crying,  ain't  I?   But  that  boy  was  me.    That  mother 

was  my  own, 
And  though  it's  years  and  years  ago,  since  I  was 

left  alone, 
Still,  I  think  of  her  at  midnight,  and  I  dream  of  her 

at  noon, 
For  I'm  goin'  home  to  mother  pretty  soon,  now — 

pretty  soon. 


(no) 


=00= 


A  COURTIN'  CALL. 

HIM! 

TJE  dressed  hisself  from  top  t'  toe 

•^     T'  beat  the  lates'  fash'n. 
He  gave  his  boots  a  extry  glow, 
His  dicky  glistered  like  the  snow, 
He  slicked  his  hair  exactly  so. 

An'  all  t'  indicate  "his  pash'n." 
He  tried  his  hull  three  ties  afore 
He  kep'  the  one  on  that  he  wore. 

HER! 

All  afternoon  she  laid  abed 

To  make  her  featchurs  brighter. 
She  tried  on  ev'ry  geoun  she  hed, 
She  rasped  her  nails  until  they  bled, 
A  dozen  times  she  frizzed  her  head 

An'  put  on  stuff  to  make  her  whiter, 
An'  fussed  till  she'd  V  cried,  she  said 
But  that  'Id  make  her  eyes  so  red. 
******** 


THEM! 

They  sot  together  in  the  dark 
'Ithout  a  light,  excep'  their  spark, 
An'  neither  could  have  told  er  guessed 
What  way  the  t'other  un  was  dressed, 
(in) 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE. 

"PONDER   of   Schnapps   and   Schneider    than    of 
"       right, 

A  shiftless,  thriftless,  rude,  unlettered  log 
Who  wallowed  in  a  slimy,  drunken  bog; 
Well-meaning  and  ill-acting;  appetite 
As  dry  as  was  his  wit;  a  jolly  wight 
With  follies  to  exhaust  the  catalogue; 
Weak-willed,   good-tempered,   sinful  and   contrite, 
Without  one  element  of  manly  might, 
Save  that  the  children  loved  him — and  his  dog. 

And  yet  he  makes  the  laughter-laden  lip 
Turn  to  a  tremble,  while  the  hot  tears  flow; 
Then  mock  its  own  emotion  by  some  slip 
To  sudden  mirth,  because  we  love  him  so; 
For  human  weakness  in  the  rascal,  Rip, 
Becomes  a  humane  strength  in  actor  Joe. 


(H2) 


Home-Made  Philosophy. 

-~— •'  '  -  >•»*•    ~  !""      "        ^-__          *^ 


n 

rv-/ 


A  MULE  OF  ARKANSAS. 

THOU  patient,  plodding  piece  of  bone  and  flesh! 
Thou  sentient  something,  tangled  in  a  mesh 
Of  fatal  being!  I  could  weep  for  thee, 
But  thou,  thou  couldst  as  surely  weep  for  me. 

Not  knowing  why  nor  whither  I  am  driven, 
To  me  the  urging  lash  is  likewise  given; 
Hitched  to  this  drag  of  life,  I  may  not  falter, 
Nor  wander  past  the  pull  of  rein  or  halter. 

Poor  thou,  poor  I!  yet,  comrade,  were  we  free, 
The  world  might  lose  the  little  we  may  be. 
Along  this  straitened  path,   perhaps  'tis  best, 
We  may  not  linger  and  we  dare  not  rest. 


("5) 


Q 


THE  BEAST  AND  HIS  BURDEN. 

THRESH  from  his  valet,  breathing  forth  perfume, 
•"•         Swathed  in  the  softest  product  of  the  loom, 
Full-fed  and  arrogant,  the  beggar  rode 
And  cursed  the  laboring  beast  which  he  bestrode. 
A  pleasant  beggar  he,  who  asked  mere  mites, 
Such  as  Possession  of  the  Public  Rights, 
Franchises,  Rights  of  Way,  and  title  deeds 
To  profit  by  our  children's  children's  needs. 

Another  leaped  upon  the  laboring  beast 

Which  faltered  as  he  felt  the  load  increased. 

The  beggar  burned  with  wrath,  but  found  relief 

To  see  it  was  his  trusted  friend,  the  thief, 

A  man  to  scale  a  Congress,  tie  the  hands 

And  gag  the  tongues,  while  forcing  his  demands 

For  booty  and  for  bounty.     Yet  so  wise 

A  cracksman  he,  he  puts  it  in  the  guise 

Of  benefit  to  others,  so  that  we 

Snatch  off  our  hats  to  him  and  bow  the  knee. 

But  now  the  beast,  by  some  strange  impulse  fired, 
Cried  out:  "Get  off  my  back,  for  I  am  tired. 
I  want  to  roll  upon  the  earth.    I  need 
To  rest  a  little  and  I  want  more  feed." 
"Beast!"  cried  the  beggar,  striking  with  his  goad, 
"We  only  ride  to  keep  you  in  the  road. 
Did  we  not  ride  and  feed  you,  you  would  wander 
And  starve  to  death  out  in  the  grasses  yonder." 
(116) 


RIMES      TO     BE      READ 


"Ass!"  cried  the  thief,  "are  you  too  blind  to  see, 
"Tis  not  your  vulgar  strength  which  carries  me, 
But  I  support  you  by  this  tight-drawn  rein? 
And  I  am  almost  weary  of  the  strain, 
So  if  you  hint  again  you  want  to  stop, 
I  swear  I'll  loose  the  rein  and  let  you  drop." 
The  laboring  beast  cried  out  in  great  alarm 
And  prayed  the  thief  to  keep  a  steady  arm. 
And  still  he  keeps  his  patient,  weary  stride, 
And  still  the  thief  and  beggar  calmly  ride. 


("7) 


TO     BE     READ 


A  PRICELESS  PARADISE. 

T  F  some  weird  gnome  should  seek  my  home, 
•*•         Some  genie,  fairy,  witch, 
To  blink  my  eyes  with  every  prize 

Of  life,  and  ask  me  "Which?" 
I  think  I'd  choose,  in  half  a  trice, 
This  boon:  to  never  ask  the  price. 

I  would  not  claim  a  gilded  name, 

Or  be  a  financier, 
Nor  would  I  hold  the  wide  world's  gold; 

And  yet  I  somewhat  fear 
I'd  ask  a  just  sufficient  slice 
That  I  might  never  ask  the  price. 

A  coat-of-arms  has  meager  charms 

To  men  of  modern  views, 
Yet  were  it  mine  to  make  design, 

I  know  which  one  I'd  choose: 
An  open  purse,  with  this  device, 
"He  never,  never  asks  the  price." 

Is  Heaven  a  state,  a  place,  a  fete, 

A  rapture,  or  a  rest? 
The  question's  old  and  each  may  hold 

His  own  opinion  best; 
But  my  idea  of  Paradise 
Is  where  one  need  not  ask  the  price! 

(118) 


-JOG 


GRANDMOTHER'S  SONG. 

f+  RANDMOTHER'S  voice  was  always  mild, 
^*      And  at  everyday  troubles  she  always  smiled; 

For  she  used  to  say 

Frowns  didn't  pay, 

As  she  had  learned  when  the  merest  child. 
So  whenever  we  cried  for  a  fancied  wrong, 
Grandmother  used  to  sing  this  song: 

"To-day,  to-day, 

Let's  all  be  gay; 

To-morrow 

We  may  sorrow. 

My  dear,  don't  fret 

For  what's  not  yet; 
For  you  make  a  trouble  double  when  you  borrow." 

Ah  me!  'tis  many  a  lonesome  year 

Since  grandmother's  song  has  reached  my  ear; 

And  I  sigh  my  sigh 

For  the  days  gone  by, 

For  you  went  with  them,  grandmother  dear. 
But  I  still  have  left  your  quaint  old  song, 
And  I  shall  sing  it  and  pass  along: 

"To-day,  to-day, 

Let's  all  be  gay; 

To-morrow 

We  may  sorrow. 

My  dear,  don't  fret 

For  what's  not  yet; 
For  you  make  a  trouble  double  when  you  borrow." 


THE  DEAR  LITTLE  FOOL. 

"P  ACH  man  is  a  master  in  a  school — 
•^  Heigh  ho,  my  deary! 

Where  he  trains  himself  to  be  a  fool — 

Folly  is  so  cheery. 

And  he  trains  him  well  and  he  trains  him  long, 
He  trains  him  true  and  he  trains  him  strong; 
And  this  is  the  burden  of  my  song — 

Wit  and  wisdom  weary. 


The  man  finds  out  that  he's  a  fool — 

Heigh  ho,  my  deary! 
And  puts  himself  on  the  dunce's  stool — 

Folly  grows  a-weary. 

And  he  says  to  himself,  "You  beast,  you  worm! 
You're  the  biggest  fool  I've  had  this  term." 
And  he  laughs  to  see  the  poor  fool  squirm — 

Wisdom  is  so  cheery. 


He  sets  down  many  a  sapient  rule — 

Heigh  ho,  my  deary! 
For  the  future  course  of  the  wretched  fool — 

Folly  is  so  weary. 

And  the  poor  little  fool,  he  says:  "Ah,  me! 
That  I  was  a  fool  I  plainly  see, 
But  never  again  such  a  fool  I'll  be!" — 

Wisdom  is  so  cheery. 
(120) 


The  man  and  the  fool  they  live  along — 

Heigh  ho,  my  deary! 
Till  the  man  is  weak  and  the  fool  is  strong — 

Folly  is  so  cheery. 

And  the  little  fool  says:  "Oh,  master  dear, 
This  never  is  long,  and  the  world  is  drear! 
Let  me  loose!  let  me  loose,  and  have  no  fear!" 

Wit  and  wisdom  weary. 

The  dear  little  fool,  he  has  his  way — 

Folly  is  so  cheery! 

The  good  man  laughs  that  the  fool  is  gay- 
Wit  and  wisdom  weary; 
Till  he  finds  that  the  fool  is  really  he, 
And  the  stronger  the  fool  the  worse  when  free, 
And  again  he  groans,  "Ah,  woe  is  me!" — 
Heigh  ho,  my  deary! 


(121) 


THE  MINOR  ROLE. 

/"\  FT  have  you  seen  a  star  upon  the  stage 

^^      Uttering  his   transports  of   despair   or  rage, 

Until  the  whole  house  wondered  at  his  skill 

And  thundered  plaudits  with  a  hearty  will. 

But  did  you  note  that  other  player  there 

Who  watched  the  leading  actor's  mock  despair, 

Who  had  no  line  to  speak,  or  work  to  do, 

Yet  who  was  there  to  make  the  background  true, 

Whose  every  thought  must  aid  (as  each  might  mar) 

The  bright  effulgence  of  the  flaming  star? 

And  did  you  stop  to  think  his  thankless  part 

Of  doing  nothing  took  the  greater  art? 

'Tis  so  in  life.     We  oftentimes  admire 
The  man  whom  nothing  seems  to  daunt  or  tire, 
Whose  energies  are  like  battalions  hurled 
Against  his  foe  (and  audience!)  the  world. 
You  hardly  note  that  other  actor  there, 
That  woman  of  his  household — and  his  care, 
Who  can  do  nothing  more,  nor  would  do  less, 
Than  live  the  background  of  his  life's  success — 
A  waiting,  watching,  suffering,  silent  soul, 
Without  the  outlet  of  a  leading  role. 
And  sure  am  I  her  patient,  minor  part, 
Doomed  to  do  nothing,  takes  the  greater  heart. 


(122) 


..-PC 


RIMES     TO     BE 


PANACEA. 

TT'S  no  great  oddity 

•*•    That  one  commodity 
Has  such  demand 
Throughout  the  land. 
You  know  what  it  is,  I  think.     Ah  yes, 
It  is  nothing  more  and  nothing  less 
Than  a  double  X  brand  of  happiness. 


Now  think  what  a  place  this  world  would  be, 

What  a  jolly  old  place  for  you  and  me, 

What  a  wonderful  place  if  you  and  I 

Would  only  try 

To  meet  the  demand  with  a  certain  supply. 

Consider,  my  son, 

How  easily  done, 

To  make  one  happy,  only  one; 

A  father,  mother, 

Sister,  brother, 

Or  if  they  be  supplied,  why  then  some  other. 


And,  my  daughter,  see 

How  well  'twould  be. 

Why,  the  thing  is  as  plain  as  A  B  C! 

If  each  of  us  were  engaged  in  keeping 

One  happy  soul  from  dawn  to  sleeping, 

(123) 


JOG 


If  each  of  us  were  busy  in  making 
One  soul  peaceful  from  dusk  to  waking. 
What  a  happy  old  place  this  world  would  be, 
What  a  jolly  old  place  for  you  and  me! 

And  if  every  one  else  then  did  the  same, 

Why  wouldn't  it  be  the  cleverest  game? 

But,  pray,  don't  try 

To  oversupply 

Somebody  already  floating  high. 

"Pis  the  sinking  wretch  we  need  to  save, 

And  not  the  one  on  the  topmost  wave. 

And  remember,  too, 

This  much — that  you 

And  I  will  profit  by  what  we  do. 

'Tis  a  curious  fact,  but  past  all  doubt, 

That  the  more  of  happiness  one  gives  out 

The  more  he  has  left  and  the  more  his  powers. 

As  the  gardener  strips  a  bed  of  flowers 

That  more  shall  bloom,  so  strip  your  soul 

That  another's  happiness  be  made  whole. 

And  lo!  in  the  quick-winged  second  after, 

'Tis  filled  with  the  blooms  of  love  and  laughter. 


("4) 


P 


BUT  O,  BOYS,  KNOW,  BOYS. 

npHERE'S   a  certain   sort   of  pleasure   in   a  min- 
•*•       gling  with  the  boys, 
In   keeping  up  your   end   of  it  and  adding  to   the 

noise 
With 

"Fill  the  cup 

And  lift  it  up 

To   every    gallant    soul   of   us. 
Drink!  drink,  my  men,  and  come  again!  the  devil 

guards  the  whole  of  us!" 
There's  a  pleasing  palpitation  to  the  liquid  of  the 

jugs, 
As  it  mingles  with  the  music  of  the  clinking  of  the 

mugs; 

There's  a  pretty,  pleasing  popping, 
When  the  bottles  are  unstopping, 
And  a  fizzy  fascination  carries  folly  to  its  height. 
But  O,  boys, 

Know,   boys — 
That  folly  has  its  flight, 
And  a  greater  fascination 
Is  a  healthy,  clean  sensation 
That  your  brain  is  still  in  session  and  your  eye  is 

clear  and  bright, 
When  the  time  comes  for  waking  in  the  morning. 


RIMES      TO     BE     READ 


There's  a  certain  sort  of  pleasure  in  the  gayety  of 

girls, 
In  the  pat  of  pretty  fingers,  in  the  brush  of  beauty's 

curls, 
With 
"Here's  a  glass 

To  any  lass 

Who  offers  tempting  lips  to  us! 
The  night  is  kind,  the  world  is  blind,  so  who  can 

debit  slips  to  us?" 
There's   a   certain   fascination    in    the    giddiness    of 

guile, 

There's  a  certain  strange  temptation  in  the  wicked 
ness  of  wile, 

When  the  wicked  wit  is  dashing 
And  the  wicked  smiles  are  flashing, 
So  if  all  the  world  be  wicked,  is  our  wickedness 

amiss? 

But  O,  boys, 

Know,   boys — 
There  comes  an  end  to  this 
And  a  higher  fascination, 
And  a  wholesomer  sensation, 
Is  to  realize  your  lips  are  clean  and  worthy  of  the 

kiss 
Of  a  sweetheart,  wife,  or  mother  in  the  morning. 


(126) 


=£0= 


A  HITCH  BEHIND. 

OEE  them  there  boys  a-crawlin' 

*^       Up  that  long  hill  and  haulin' 

Their  sleds?    A-slippin',  fallin', 

A-puffin'f  laughin',  bawlin'? 

And  see  those  others  shootin'  down  the  slope 

Slicker  than  greased  eels  in  a  barrel  o'  soap? 

And  down  upon  the  level  there,  you'll  find 

A  batch  of  fellers  of  a  different  kind, 

Jest  nacherally  waitin'  fer  a  hitch  behind. 


Crawlin*  up  hill  is  work.   An'  you  soon  learn 
That  all  you  git  fer  work  you  more  than  earn. 
O'  course  sometimes  one  of  the  strongest  chaps 
May  have  the  easiest  sled  to  pull,  perhaps. 
An*  then,  again,  you'll  see  some  heavy  bob 
Behind  a  kid  too  little  fer  the  job, 
But  still  he  plugs  ahead,  not  bein'  the  kind 
To  stand  'round  waitin'  fer  a  hitch  behind. 


An*  slidin*  down  is  spendin*.    Once  your  sled 
Gits  on  the  slope  and  finds  it  has  its  head, 
There  ain't  no  use  a-diggin'  in  your  toes. 
A  sled  was  made  to  go  an'  blame!    She  goes. 
Same  way  with  money,  'ceptin'  it's  the  kind 
That  gits  its  motion  from  a  hitch  behind. 

(127) 


• 


RIMES      TO      BE 


Fer  hitch-behinders  are  two  sorts.     Some's  so  all- 
fired 

Lazy  they  won't  climb.    They'll  be  too  tired 
To  chase  the  hitches  up  when  hitches  come, 
'Ceptin*  they're  ice-wagons.     Then  there's  some 
That  let  the  workin'-wagons  go,  and  hitch 
Onto  the  double-bob  "The  Public,"  which 
Is  drawed  by  two  old  plugs  called  You  and  Me, 
And  drove  by  Uncle  Sammy.     Some  day,  he 
May  git  a  cure  fer  bein'  deaf  and  blind 
And  swing  his  black-snake  at  them  kids  behind. 


(128) 


Ns 


RIMES      TO     BE 


A  WATCHWORD. 

TTTTHEN  you  find  a  certain  lack 
^  *       In  the  stiffness  of  your  bacis 
At  a  threatened  fierce  attack, 
Just  the  hour 

That  you  need  your  every  power, 
Look  a  bit 

For  a  thought  to  baffle  it. 
Just  recall  that  every  knave, 
Every  coward,  can  be  brave 
Till  the  time 

That  his  courage  should  be  prime — 
Then  't  is  fled. 
Keep  your  head! 
What  a  folly  't  is  to  lose  it 
Just  the  time  you  want  to  use  it! 

When  the  ghost  of  some  old  shirk 
Comes  to  plague  you,  and  to  lurk 
In  your  study  or  your  work, 
Here  's  a  hit 

Like  enough  will  settle  it. 
Knowledge  is  a  worthy  prize; 
Knowledge  comes  to  him  who  tries — 
Whose  endeavor 
Ceases  never. 
Everybody  would  be  wise 
As  his  neighbor, 

Were  it  not  that  they  who  labor, 
(129) 


For  the  trophy  creep,  creep,  creep, 

While  the  others  lag  or  sleep; 

And  the  sun  comes  up  some  day 

To  behold  one  on  his  way 

Past  the  goal 

Which  the  soul 

Of  another  has  desired, 

But  whose  motto  was,  "I  'm  tired." 

When  the  task  of  keeping  guard 

Of  your  heart — 

Keeping  weary  watch  and  ward 

Of  the  part 

You  are  called  upon  to  play 

Every  day — 

Is  becoming  dry  and  hard, — 

Conscience  languid,  virtue  irksome, 

Good  behavior  growing  worksome, — 

Think  this  thought: 

Doubtless  everybody  could, 

Doubtless  everybody  would, 

Be  superlatively  good, 

Were  it  not 

That  it  's  harder  keeping  straight 

Than  it  is  to  deviate; 

And  to  keep  the  way  of  right, 

You  must  have  the  pluck  to  fight. 


(130) 


RIMES     TO     BE     R 


THE  REFORMER. 

T    KNOW  a  philosopher,  learned  and  read, 

•*•        Who,  in  viewing  the  world,  seems  to  stand  on 

his  head, 

He  pities  the  poor  and  goes  in  for  reform, 
Convinced  he  can  keep  the  world  comfy  and  warm, 
If  he  keeps  the  thermometer  out  of  the  storm. 

Having  heard  how  the  ostrich  has  cleverly  planned 
To  hide  by  concealing  his  head  in  the  sand, 
He  holds  that  a  scheme  would  be  valid  and  wise 
To  protect  it  forever  from  hunt  and  surprise 
By  catching  the  ostrich  and  searing  its  eyes. 

He  marvels  that  men  should  so  bargain  and  dicker 
To  be  governed  at  last  by  an  imbecile  ticker, 
So  he  has  invented  one,  run  by  a  clock; 
Set  fast,  it  will  "boost,"  or  set  slow,  it  will  "knock,'; 
And  thus  you  can  bull  or  can  bear  any  stock. 

In  elections  he  claims  that  the  office  should  go 
Not  to  him  with  the  high  vote,  but  him  with  the 

low. 

To  be  voted  unpopular  surely  is  tough, 
So  the  office  should  go  to  console  the  rebuff, 
While  the  man  who  succeeds  is  rewarded  enough. 

He  holds  that  a  criminal  ought  to  do  time 
Before,  and  not  after,  committing  the  crime. 
(131) 


=00= 


RIMES     TO      BE     READ 


"Plain  drunk"  would  be  given  a  month  to  be  fitted; 
Ten  years  and  a  burglary  might  be  permitted; 
While    murderers    first    would    be    hung,    then    ac 
quitted. 

You  laugh  at  this  mortal?    I  laugh  at  him,  too; 
He  reminds  me  so  much  of  myself — and  of  you. 
Oh,  I'm  sure  the  world's  sick  and  it  needs  a  phy 
sician, 

But  if  I  be  the  doctor  to  fill  the  position, 
The  fee  curing  me  cures  the  patient's  condition! 


"HONOR." 

A      PACK  of  dogs  were  sunning  and  napping, 
•"•      Well-fed,  satisfied,  glad  dogs; 
Suddenly,  up  sprang,  snarling  and  snapping, 

Ill-bred,  villified,  mad  dogs. 
Some  one  had  flung  them  a  musty  bone, 
And  the  chorus  cried,  "It  is  mine;  my  own." 
"  "Tis  mine,  I  claim,  for  I  saw  it  first." 
"  'Tis  mine,  say  I,  for  I  need  it  worst." 
Quarreling  and  snarling,  they  leaped  to  fight, 
Yowling  and  growling,  their  teeth  snapped  tight, 
Till  each  had  lost  of  his  quivering  flesh 
More  meat  than  the  bone  had  held  when  fresh! 
They  rolled  themselves  in  the  muck  and  mud; 
They  lost  their  bone  and  they  lost  their  blood. 
But  on  they  fought,  for,  be  it  known, 
It  is  doggish  honor  to  fight  for  a  bone. 

A  goose  flew  into  a  neighbor's  yard 

And  left  an  egg  as  a  calling  card. 

"The  egg  is  mine,  for  my  goose  made  it." 

"  'Tis  mine,  for  on  my  land  she  laid  it." 

A  look,  a  word,  a  threat,  a  wrangle, 

A  suit  at  law,  a  legal  tangle, 

Decision,  dissent,  appeal,  reversal, 

A  re-appeal  and  a  re-rehearsal, 

The  egg  grew  stale,  the  case  grew  rotten, 

The  goose  was  dead  and  long  forgotten, 

(i33) 


t 


But  still  the  antagonists  litigated, 

While  the  lawyers  smiled  and  the  judges  prated, 

Though  all  their  driest  lore,  or  juiciest, 

Could  not  decide  which  goose  was  goosiest. 

Yet  still  they  fought,  for,  be  it  known, 

'Tis  a  point  of  honor  to  "guard  one's  own." 

The  Powers  of  the  Earth  discussing  whether 

They  might  not  eternally  dwell  together 

With  peace,  good  humor  and  good  digestion, 

Were   suddenly  stirred  by  a  grievous   question. 

An  egg,  or  a  bone,  produced  the  foment, 

Or,  anyway,  something  of  equal  moment. 

"Tut!  the  question  is  one  of  the  merest  trifles. 

(We'll  rush  our  order  for  newer  rifles.") 

"Dear  cousin  of  ours,  we  are  more  than  brothers, 

(Have    you     noticed     our     navy?     There     are     no 

others.") 

"Good  friend,  our  affection  is  deep  and  holy. 
(Do  you  think  these  guns  are  ornaments  solely?") 
O,  dogs  will  be  dogs  when  they  come  to  a  bone, 
And  men  may  be  geese,  as  a  goose  has  shown, 
And  it's  national  "honor"  to  go  to  war 
Over  something  that  isn't  worth  fighting  for! 


C'34) 


=£0= 


DEAR  MOTHER  EARTH. 

T\EAR  Mother  Earth,  full  oft  I  long 
^•^     To  sing  thy  praises  in  a  song; 
I  ache  to  lay  me  down  to  rest 
Somewhere  upon  thy  yielding  breast, 
To  turn  my  pavement-wearied  feet 
Beyond  the  seeming  endless  street, 
And  seek  some  dimpled  country  place, 
Half  cool,  half  warm,  for  thy  embrace; 
Then  kiss  thee,  prone  upon  my  face, 
Dear  Mother  Earth! 

Like  old  Antaeus  long  ago, 
Whose  strength  surged  up  from  earth  below, 
I  feel  there  is  a  peace  in  thee, 
Which  thou  dost  whisper  unto  me, 
When  thus  I  press  thee,  cheek  to  cheek. 
Thou  art  so  strong  and  I  so  weak; 
And  some  time  there  shall  come  a  day 
When  tender,  trembling  hands  shall  lay 
Me  deep,  to  mingle  with  thy  clay, 
Dear  Mother  Earth! 

Thy  gift  to  me  shall  come  to  thee, 
And  as  thou  art,  so  shall  I  be. 
I  owe  thee  all,  and  so  must  try 
To  make  thee  better  ere  I  die; 
And  as  we  twain  are  one,  I  see 
To  better  self  may  better  thee. 
(135) 


RIMES     TO     BE     READ 


And  so  I  rise  from  thy  embrace 
Revived,  and  with  a  hopeful  grace, 
Thus  having  met  thee  face  to  face, 
Dear  Mother  Earth! 


(136) 


£T 
Various  Verses 


RIMES     TO     BE     READ 


DOMESTICATED  GENIUS. 

T    AM  not  up  on  artist's  gush; 
•*•       I  can't  "improve  the  rose's  flush," 
Nor  yet  "so  paint  the  woodland  thrush 

That  one  may  hear  it  sing;" 
But  let  me  own  without  a  blush, 
I  swing  a  very  pretty  brush 

On  window  screens  in  spring. 

I  own  I've  no  desire  to  meet 
A  foreign  foe,  in  field,  or  fleet; 
I'm  free  to  say  I  might  retreat, 

If  I  were  left  on  guard; 
Yet  many  a  man  might  find  defeat, 
If  matched  against  me,  as  I  beat 

The  rugs  in  our  back  yard. 

I  seldom  seek  a  grassy  ground 
And  seize  a  shinny-stick  to  pound 
A  marble  from  a  little  mound 

In  token  of  my  power; 
Far  greater   glory  I  have  found, 
For  I  can  push  the  mower  'round 

Our  lawn  in  just  one  hour. 

I'm  not  familiar  with  the  gear 
Of  touring  cars.     I  could  not  steer 
The  catapult  on  its  career 


JQQ 


RIMES     TO     BE     READ, 


And  dodge   the   rut  and  rock; 
But  you  would  own  I've  scarce  a  peer, 
If  you  should  see  me  engineer 

The  go-cart  'round  the  block. 

I'm  not  of  those  who  "fought  and  bled;" 
My  fame  has  never  widely  spread; 
My  qualities  of  heart  and  head 

Are  very  often  doubted; 

But  o'er  my  bones  let  this  be  said — 

That  I've  fixed  up  an  onion  bed, 

And,  Heaven  be  praised!  it's  sprouted. 


(140) 


THE  SIGNS  OF  THE  ZODIAC. 

(A  Modern  Interpretation.) 

QAGITTARIUS.    Otherwise 
*^   Cupid,  in  a  thin  disguise. 

Virgo,  the  maiden.     She  and  I 
Trot  to  altar.    Happy?    My! 

Libra.    First  designs  of  Fate; 
Grocer  fails  to  give  full  weight. 

Taurus.     Increased  dangers  lurk. 
Beef    trust   now   begins   to   work. 

Aries.    Fails  to  bring  relief; 
Mutton  follows  price  of  beef. 

Pisces.     Fish  trust.    Itching  fin. 
Finds  my  pocket.     Thrusts  it  in. 

Aquarius.     Water  turned  to  ice 
Stiffens.    Also  does  the  price. 

Scorpio.    Hot  stuff.    That  means  coal; 
What!  up  higher?    Bless  my  soul! 

Leo.    Though  I  make  a  roar, 
Things  go  up  a  little  more. 
(141) 


RIMES      TO     BE     READ. 


Capricornus.     Try   to   buck 

Tiger.     Cleaned  out.     Wretched  luck. 

Gemini.     Anxious  hours  on  pins; 
Nurse   comes  in   and — Heavens,   twins! 

Cancer  the  crab.     What's  crab?     O,  yes, 
Meaning  a  lobster — me,  I  guess. 


(142) 


c. 

4 


RIMES      TO     BE      READ. 


THE  LOVE  OF  COUNTRY. 
(As  It  Too  Often  Is  At  Present.) 

F\  EEP   in  the  heart  of  every  man  the  love   of 

*~*     country  lies; 

He  breathes  it  with  his  baby  breath;  it  lingers  till  he 

dies. 

So  I  love  the  land  we  live  in,  every  tittle,  every  jot, 
With  a  preferential  feeling  for  a  Broadway  corner 

lot. 


I  love  the  boundless  country,  with  its  harvest,  and 

I  sigh 

To  manipulate  a  corner  of  the  visible  supply. 
I  love  the  lofty  mountains,  and  I  feel  my  heart  will 

burst, 
Knowing  I  might  own  their  treasure,  had  I  only 

found  it  first. 


And   not   alone   our   country   and   its   greatness   I 

revere, 

But  I  hold  the  very  emblems  of  its  privileges  dear. 
Methinks  the  goddess  Liberty  would  touch  a  heart 

of  flint, 
So  beautifully   stamped   upon   the   product   of   the 

mint! 

d43) 


And  I  linger  o'er  the  Latin  graven  on  the  coin's 

reverse, 
Wishing  that  I  had  a  "pluribus"  of  "unums"  in  my 

purse. 
I  love  the  spreading  eagle  with  the  lightning  in  its 

clutch, 
And  I  love  the  double  eagle  just  precisely  twice  as 

much! 

Then  the  patriots  and  the  sages — that  long  and  no 
ble  line — 

I  would  that  a  collection  of  their  likenesses  were 
mine! 

I  love  the  Grant  and  Lincoln  on  the  crisp  or  crum 
pled  "one," 

And  on  the  "two"  I  cherish  the  immortal  Washing 
ton. 

I  love  the   Franklin  on  the  "ten,"  the   Garfield  on 

the  "five," 
And  I  love  the  noble  red  man  better  there  than  if 

alive. 
The  hero  on  the  "twenty,"  too,  is  strangely  dear  to 

me, 
But  who  he  is,  alas!  I   seldom  have  a  chance  to 

see. 

Yes,  I  honor  all  the  heroes  who  are  turned  to  com 
mon  clay, 

And  my  soul  is  filled  with  gratitude — I'm  not  as 
dead  as  they. 

(i44) 


P 


TO     BE     READ. 


Yet  while  they  lived  they  nobly  launched  our  glori 
ous  Ship  of  State; 

And  I  wish  I  had  the  contract  to  supply  her  armor- 
plate. 

"In  God  we  trust"  they  placed  upon  our  coinage, 
which  is  why 

In  man  we  will  not  trust  unless  he  has  a  good  sup 
ply. 

From  bonds  of  foreign  tyranny  they  bravely  set  us 

free, 
And  bonds  of  Uncle  Sam  are  good  enough  for  you 

and  me. 


(145) 


a 


TO     BE     READ. 


AT  A  RAILROAD  JUNCTION. 

T    O!    HERE  am  I  at  Junction  Town, 

"••^     At  slow  and  woful  Junction  Town, 
Where  devils  laugh  and  angels  frown 
To  see  a  traveler  set  down; 
Where  trains  run  only  with  a  view 
To  help  a  restaurant  or  two; 
Where  rusty  rails  and  barren  boards 
Are  all  the  point  of  view  affords. 
But  O,  the  barren  board  of  all 
Is  that  within  that  eating-stall! 
Yes,  stall,  I  said,  and  well  deserved 
The  name!  where  beastly  feed  is  served. 
And  so  I  say  without  compunction 
My  curses  on  this  Railroad  Junction. 

What  shall  I  do  at  Junction  Town? 
At  drear  and  weary  Junction  Town? 
The  martyr's  cross  without  the  crown 
Awaits  the  stranger  here  set  down. 
O,  one  may  wait  and  wait  and  wait, 
Or  one  may  rail  against  his  fate, 
Or  eyes  and  ears  may  strain  and  strain, 
As  later,  later  grows  the  train, 
The  while  the  lagging  minutes  mock 
His  witless  watching  of  the  clock; 
Or  one  may  watch  the  station  clerk 
Performing  his  relentless  work. 

(146) 


RIMES     TO     BE     READ. 


O,  wretched  man,  of  wretched  function, 
Existing  at  this  Railroad  Junction! 

God's  pity  on  this  Junction  Town, 

This  dead  and  dreadful  Junction  Town! 

O,  what  nepenthe- well  can  drown 

The  cares  of  travelers  here  set  down. 

The  thought  may  give  some  passing  cheer 

One  may  escape  within  a  year, 

Or  else  the  sentence  be  commuted 

And  only  death  be  executed! 

And  if  't  be  so,  I  only  pray 

There  be  no  Resurrection  Day, 

For  think  of  Gabriel  coming  down 

And  finding  one  at  Junction  Town! 

And  so  I  say,  with  fervent  unction, 

God's  pity  on  this  Railroad  Junction! 


(147) 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  POT  O'  PAINT 

NOW  rises  up  the  woman  with  a  purpose  in  her 
face 
And   "touches   up"    the    various    belongings    of   the 

place. 
A  red  is  on  her  shoulder  where  she  slid  her  sleeve 

on  high, 
A  yellow  on  her  temple  where  she  tried  to  wipe  her 

eye; 
The  baby's  face  is  waffled  where  it  went  against  the 

screen, 
And  papa's   Sunday  trousers  have  a  seat  of  vivid 

green, 
But  the  woman  with  the  pot  o'  paint,  unconscious  of 

her  blame, 
Still  "touches  up"  the  various  belongings  just  the 

same. 

Not  hers  the  languid  landscape,  or  monotonous  ma 
rine, 

Not  hers  the  china  set  bedaubed  with  giddy  gold 
and  green, 

Not  hers  the  "chrome"  and  "lake"  from  out  a  tube 
of  squeezy  lead, 

Upon  a  palette  daubed  and  with  a  mouse's  whisker 
spread. 

Nay,  nay,  the  can  of  color  of  an  honest  primal  hue, 

And  hers,  the  brush  as  spreading  as  a  horse's  tail  or 
two; 

(148) 


.JOO-. 


RIMES      TO     BE     READ 


Then  pick  her  out  a  lonesome  day  and  let  her  have 

full  swing, 
And  the  woman  with  the  paint-pot  is  the  terror  of 

the  spring. 

O,  Raphael  was  rapid  and  his  genius  was  intense, 

But  he  couldn't  put  more  paint  than  could  the 
woman  on  a  fence, 

And  cunning  was  the  coloring  of  Titian  and  his 
brush, 

But  the  colors  of  the  woman  would  have  put  him  to 
the  blush. 

Michael  Angelo  was  noted  for  his  daring,  it  is  said, 

But  did  he  ever  dare  to  paint  a  china  door-knob  red? 

Bonheur  could  paint  a  powerful  horse  or  gentle 
manly  cow, 

But  you  ought  to  see  the  painted  cat  that's  living 
with  us  now! 


(i49) 


b 

V/,1 


RIMES     TO     BE     READ 


BLACK  AND  TAN. 

TWTISS  Barbara  Black,  a  waxen  blond, 

•*•*•*•     Bemoans  her  visage,  pale  and  wanned, 

And  strives  by  every  plan 
To  compass  her  supreme  desire, 
Seen  in  her  struggles  to  acquire 
A  coat  of  richest  tan. 

Miss  Lily  White,  a  "bright  brunette," 
Disdains  her  locks  of  curly  jet 

And  African  descent. 
True  happiness  she  may  not  reach, 
Because  her  hue  will  never  bleach, 

Say  ninety-five  per  cent. 

Now,  if  some  scientific  crack 

Could  bleach  Miss  White  and  tan  Miss  Black, 

His  fame  would  surely  shine. 
But,  oh!  suppose  the  learned  man 
Should  equalize  their  black  and  tan 

And  lose  the  color  linel 


(ISO) 


THE  SUPERIOR  VIEW. 

"\T  ES,  Plato's  works  were  good,  for  he  was  clever 

•*•       in  a  way, 
But  they're  hardly  ever  in  the  "six  best  sellers"  of 

to-day: 

And  Shakespeare  had  a  certain  popularity,  no  doubt, 
But    he    hasn't  published    lately    and    I    guess    he's 

written  out; 
And  as  for  Homer,  really,  don't  you  think  he  was  a 

sham? 
Why,  it's  doubtful  if  he  ever  even  wrote  a  telegram. 


Yes,  Alexander's  armies  showed  a  certain  sort  of 

skill, 

But  his  knowledge  of  artillery  was  pretty  nearly  nil. 
Napoleon  rode  roughly  over  half  a  hemisphere, 
But  he  never  rode  an  auto  in  all  of  his  career; 
And  Caesar  was  courageous  in  vicissitudes  of  war, 
But  he  never  had  the  fortitude  to  jump  a  trolley- 

car. 


Yes,  Paginini  knew  the  way  to  swing  a  fiddle  bow, 
But  could  he  swing  the  voters  of  his  precinct,  do 

you  know? 

And  Raphael  could  color  with  a  very  pretty  touch, 
But  his  drawings  never  figured  in  the  papers  very 

much, 

USD 


And    Phidias    could   build   a    Parthenon   in    stately 

style, 
But  I'd  rather  have  my  money  in  a  modern  office 

pile. 

Yes,  Moses  was  a  clever  organizer  for  his  date, 

But  he  never  tried  to  organize  a  steamship  syndi 
cate  ; 

And  Socrates'  philosophy  has  been  esteemed  sub 
lime, 

But  he  never  asked  for  numbers  that  were  "busy" 
all  the  time; 

And  as  for  Father  Adam,  why,  whatever  Eve  would 
bake, 

He  never  dared  to  hint  of  things  his  mother  used 
to  make! 


(152) 


=00= 


TO     BE     READ 


THE  ORGAN  GRINDER. 

TJT  E  stands  outside  my  window  in  the  street, 
•*•  •*•     A  humble  minstrel  of  a  dozen  lays, 
A  memory  of  simpler,  happier  days. 
Dear   "Home,   Sweet   Home,"   and   faithless   ''Mar 
guerite," 

I  did  not  know  their  music  was  so  sweet; 
The  "Washerwoman"  and  the  "Marsellaise," 
I  know  not  which  should  have  my  highest  praise, 
Their  very  crudeness  makes  them  so  complete. 

Weary  of  Wagner  and  his  turgid  notes, 

Of  florid  Verdi's  acrobatic  throats, 

I  revel  in  this  arm-delivered  air, 

Which  whips  a  score  of  years  from  out  my  sight, 

Refills  me  with  a  bubbling  boy's  delight, 

And  leaves  me  scant  of  pennies  and  of  care. 


dS3) 


tJ 


4 


OLIVER  HAZARD  PERRY. 


met  the  enemy  and  they  are  ours; 
Two    ships,    two    brigs,    one    schooner 

and    one    sloop." 

His  words  charge  down  the  years  —  a  warlike  group, 
Grim,  gallant,  glorious!    All  the  flowers 
Matured  by  summer  suns  and  autumn  showers 
We  use  to  deck  the  memory  of  that  group, 
Born  of  the  times  when  banners  rise  or  droop 
In  the  harsh  conflict  of  contending  powers. 

But  look  thou,  Perry!  gallant  man  and  true! 
See'st  thou  that  smoke  of  commerce,  not  of  war? 
Rejoice  with  us  that  now  no  battles  mar, 
And  now  there  is  no  work  for  thee  to  do; 
No  lookout's  eye  sights  carnage  from  afar; 
No  dismal  red  is  mixed  with  Erie's  blue. 


d54) 


RIMES     TO     BE 


THE  THIRTY-THIRD  DEGREE. 

TVTOW  every  thing  that  Russell  did,  he  did  his  best 

•^      to  hasten 

And  one   day  he   decided   that  he'd  like   to   be   a 

Mason. 
But  nothing  else  would  suit  him  and  nothing  less 

would  please, 
But  he  must  take  and  all  at  once  the  thirty-three 

degrees! 

Well,  he  rode  the—oh,  that  is,  he— really  I  can't 

tell. 
You  either  mustn't  know  at  all,  or  else  know  very 

well. 
He  dived  into— well,  never  mind.     It  only  need  be 

said 
That  somewhere  in  the  last  degree,  poor   Russell 

dropped  down  dead! 

They  arrested  all  the  Masons  and  they  stayed  in 

durance  vile. 
Till  the  jury  found  them  "Guilty"  when  the  judge 

said  with  a  smile, 
"I'm  forced  to  let  the  prisoners  go,  for  I  can  find," 

said  he, 
"No  penalty  for  murder  in  the  thirty-third  degree!" 


n 

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d55) 


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OTTO  AND  THE  AUTO. 

>*"p  IS  strange  how  fashion  makes  us  change  the 

objects  we  admire; 
We   used   to   sing   the   tireless   steed,   but   now   the 

steedless  tire. 

So  Otto  bought  an  auto,  so  as  not  to  be  antique, 
But  the  thing  was  autocratic,  as  well  as  automatic. 
And  the  auto  wouldn't  auto  as  it  ought  to,  so  to 

speak. 


He  thought  to  hire  an  auto-operator  for  the  work, 
And  first  he  hired  a  circus-man  and  then  he  hired  a 

Turk, 
For  he  knew  the  circus-man  drove  fifty  horses  with 

success, 

And  if  a  man  be  shifty  enough  to  manage  fifty, 
'Tis    palpable    enough    he    ought    to    manage    one 

horse-less! 


As  for  the  Turk,  'tis  also  plain,  deny  it  if  you  can, 
He  ought  to  run  an  auto,  for  a  Turk's  an  Ottoman. 
'Twas  all  in  vain;  so  Otto  moved  to  Alabama,  purely 
That  he  might  say,  "I'm  Otto  from  Mobile,  and  my 

motto: 
'A    Mobile    Otto    ought    to    run    an    automobile 

surely!'" 


So  Otto  sought  to  auto  on  the  auto  as  he  ought  to, 
But  the  auto  sought  to  auto  as  Otto  never  thought 

to! 
Then  Otto  he  got  hot,  oh,  very  hot!  as  he  ought 

not  to, 
And  Otto  said:    "This  auto  ought  to  auto  and  it's 

got  to!" 

And  Otto  fought  the  auto  and  the  auto  it  fought 

Otto, 

Till  the  auto  also  got  too  hot  to  auto  as  it  ought  to, 
And  then,  Great  Scott!  that  auto  shot  to  heaven — 

so  did  Otto — 
Where  Otto's  auto  autos  now  as  Otto's  auto  ought 

to. 


d57) 


RIMES     TO     BE     READ. 


her 


LENTEN  PENITENCE. 
(A  la  Mode.) 

TN  sack-cloth  and  ashes  my  lady  prepares 
•*•      To    repent    of   her    sins   and    to    murmur 

prayers. 

She  is  fond  of  her  prayers,  so  her  copies  are  bound 
In  harmony  with  her,  however  she's  gowned, 
For  she  holds  her  Creator  should  never  be  faced 
Except  in  mauve  prayers  with  a  lavender  waist. 

In  sack-cloth  and  ashes  she  ponders  afresh 
On  methods  of  penance  to  punish  the  flesh; 
And  what  though  she  choose,  for  her  piety's  sake, 
The  vicarious  flesh  of  a  porterhouse  steak? 
"O  Lord,  be  Thou  merciful  unto  a  sinner" 
Who  has  fasted  for  hours  and  is  faint  for  her  din 
ner. 

In  sack-cloth  and  ashes,  but  if  she  prefer 

That  her  sacque  should  be  seal,  should  there  be  a 

demur? 
Prophet   John    wore    a    skin    (and    our   climate    is 

colder) 
Which  draped  from  the  loins,  as  hers  drapes  from 

the  shoulder. 

And  as  for  the  ashes,  well,  they  may  be  met 
Where  they  dusted  the  fur  from  her  last  cigaret! 


(158) 


RIMES     TO     BE     READ 


COMEDY  OR  TRAGEDY? 
(The   Coquette,  loquitur.) 

SAY  I  do  not  love  you.    I  am  gay 
And  with  my  laughter  waft  your  vows  away 
For  you,  you  say  you  love  me,  smile  and  sigh, 
And  fire  me  with  the  fervor  of  your  eye. 
Ah  me,  the  pity  of  our  mimic  play! 
If  only  either  of  us  did  not  lie! 


MY  LOVER  SAYS. 

TJE  says  I  should  not  give  a  glance 

•^      To  other  men 

But  'tis  no  gift,  for,  by  some  chance, 

I'm  sure  to  get  one  back  again — 

Or  two,  or  ten; 
Besides,  I  only  look  to  see 
If  any  of  them  look  at  me. 

He  says  I  ought  to  see  as  through 

My  lover's  eyes; 
But  I  reply  that  so  I  do, 
For  where  he  looks  there  I  look  too; 

For  I  am  wise, 

And  know  that  he  must  look — to  see 
If  any  of  them  look  at  me! 


(160) 


/— 

\ 

/"V1 

i\ 


NOT  A  BIT  SUPERSTITIOUS. 

"JVTO,  I  am  not  superstitious. 
A^     I  consider  it  pernicious, 
If  not  absolutely  vicious 
In  a  man 

To  admit  himself  so  small  that  he  must  scan 
Every  little  sign  and  omen 
As  the  menace  of  a  foeman. 
Still,  I'm  free  to  say  that  Friday 
Never,  never  would  be  my  day 
For  a  venture,  for  I'm  sure  'twould  never  hit, 
Though  I  am  not  superstitious,  not  a  bit. 

Really,  I've  no  toleration 
Of  that  nervous  hesitation 
And  that  irksome  perturbation 

Which  I've  seen, 

When  a  dinner-party  chanced  to  be  thirteen. 
Why,  I've  seen  that  arrant  folly 
Make  a  whole  crowd  melancholy, 
With  their  whining  and  their  flimsy, 
Foolish  reasons  for  the  whimsey. 
Still,  I  own  I  hate  to  be  the  last  to  sit. 
Though  I  am  not  superstitious,  not  a  bit. 

Certain  things  may  be  propitious, 
Though  they  seem  but  adventitious, 
And  it's  hardly  superstitious 
To  perceive 

Which  is  which,  and  so,  accordingly,  believe. 
(161) 


Now  there's  nothing  makes  me  sadder 

Than  to  walk  beneath  a  ladder; 

But  I  grow  a  good  deal  bolder 

When  the  moon  is  at  my  shoulder. 

And  to  spill  the  salt!  It  takes  away  my  grit, 

Though  I  am  not  superstitious,  not  a  bit. 

Surely  nothing  can  be  clearer 
Than  that  evil  marches  nearer 
At  the  breaking  of  a  mirror, 
And  it's  true 

That  a  howling  dog  in  night-time  makes  me  blue, 
For  his  keen  scent  makes  no  errors 
And  he  smells  the  King  of  Terrors. 
Here's  another  thing.     Take  heed,  sir, 
If  your  nose  should  start  to  bleed,  sir, 
And  should  only  bleed  three  drops  and  then  should 

quit! 
Though  I  am  not  superstitious,  not  a  bit. 

It  is  odd  to  see  what  uses 
Some  folks  make  of  vain  excuses 
Rather  than  admit  abuses 

Of  the  mind, 

When  they're  rather  superstitiously  inclined. 
Just  to  put  it  in  plain  English; 
It  would  seem  they  can't  distinguish 
Between  false  and  foolish  cases 
And  the  few  which  have  a  basis 
In  experience,  which  even  I  admit, 
Though  I  am  not  superstitious,  not  a  whit! 
(162) 


THE  ARMIES  OF  THE  CORN. 

T3  ANK  upon  rank  they  stood,  and  row  on  row; 

Plumed,  tasseled,  uniformed  in  green, 
With  rations  in  their  knapsacked  husks  between 
The  myriad  blades  they  brandished  at  the  foe. 

Long  held  the  brave  brigades  and  would  not  yield 
Till  shattered  by  the  destiny  of  War. 
Then    (gallant   tribute   from    the   conqueror!) 

They  stacked  their  arms  and  tented  on  the  field. 


(163) 


INDEX. 

PAGE 

Adam    74 

After-Dinner   Apology   of    Le    Comte    Crapaud.  loa 

Almost    Up     5g 

Anarchist,   The    20 

An   Unconventional    Rustic 77 

Armies  of  the  Corn,  The 163 

At  a    Railroad   Junction 146 

Beast  and  His  Burden,  The 1 16 

Before    Playing   Tinkertown 81 

Black   and    Tan 150 

But  O,  Boys,   Know,   Boys 125 

But   They   Didn't 60 

Comedy   or    Tragedy? 159 

Connor  McCarthy   30 

Courtin'   Call,   A in' 

Dat   Gawgy  Watahmillon 91 

Dear    Little    Fool,   The 120 

Dear   Mother   Earth 135 

De    Goofeh-Jack    yo 

Domesticated    Genius    139 

Evolution    62 

Fame   and   Fate 57 

"Fin    de   Siecle" 67 

Going   Home    to    Mother 108 

Grandmother's    Song    ug 

Hero  of  the  Hill,  The 50 

Hitch   Behind,   A 127 

"Honor"    133 

"I'm  Glad  to  See  You" n 

(165) 


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t 


INDEX. 

PAGE 

In  the  Old  Schoolhouse 54 

Katie   an'    Me 89 

Labors  of  Hercules,  The 41 

Lenten    Penitence    158 

Little   Saunter,   A 84 

Love  of  Country,  The 143 

Minor  Role,  The 122 

Mule  of  Arkansas,  A 115 

My  Lover  Says 160 

Nathan's   Flat    93 

Not  a  Bit  Superstitious 161 

Not   a    Coon-Song    Coon 75 

Old  Man  Knows,  The 72 

Oliver  Hazard  Perry 154 

Organ  Grinder,  The 153 

"Other  One  Was  Booth,  The" 105 

Otto  and  the  Auto 156 

"Our   Club"— The  Irish   Member's   Toast 97 

"Our  Ladies"-— The  Poet's  Toast 99 

Panacea    123 

Priceless    Paradise,    A 1 18 

Reformer,  The    131 

Revenge     86 

Rip    Van   Winkle 112 

Signs  of  the  Zodiac,  The 141 

Story  of  Old  Glory,  The 15 

Superior   View,   The 151 

Thirty-third   Degree,   The 155 

Unverstaendlich    87 

Watchword,  A 129 

Woman  with  the  Pot  o'  Paint,  The 148 

Young  Man  Waited,  The 38 

(166) 


HERE  ENDS  "RIMES  TO  BE  READ" 
BY  EDMUND  VANCE  COOKE: 
PRINTED  BY  THE  DODGE  PUBLISHING 
COMPANY  IN  THE  CITY  OF  NEW  YORK. 


41437 


A     000  671  719     3 


